


Closer to the Fire

by letherbeseen



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Gotham City Sirens - Fandom, Justice League (2017), Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Attempted Murder, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Corina Calderon, Drug Addiction, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Gang Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jay Hernandez - Freeform, Multi, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide, more tags to be added as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letherbeseen/pseuds/letherbeseen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*ON INDEFINITE HIATUS* </p><p>Grace Santana knew what she was getting into when she first laid eyes on the tattooed man they called El Diablo. Temptation’s hard to resist and after all, who can say they fell in love with and married the Devil?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it's the sweetest taste of sin

                                                                 

 **Rating:** Mature/Teen (PG-13+)

 **Word Count:** 4,718

 **Chapter Warnings:** Violence, Blood, Gore and Death

 **Pairing:** Grace/Chato Santana

 **Summary:**   _Grace Santana knew what she was getting into when she first laid eyes on the tattooed man they called El Diablo. Temptation’s hard to resist and after all, who can say they fell in love with and married the Devil?_

 **Promos:[[Final Promo]](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149566550297/grace-santana-knew-what-she-was-getting-into-when) ** **[[Promo #3]](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149523874122/grace-finds-herself-smiling-back-at-the-tattooed) | **[[Promo #2]](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149485188682/she-thinks-theyre-wrong-to-judge-someone-that) | [[Promo #1]](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149429647857/she-first-sees-him-when-shes-working-full-time)****

 

 

 

> ****read** : [ffnet](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12127170/1/Closer-to-the-Fire) | [wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/305384357-closer-to-the-fire-chapter-one) | [tumblr](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149720046802/closer-to-the-fire-part-one-rating-matureteen)  
>  ↳ _please try to leave a review/kudos/reblog! :)_**
> 
>  

**i.**

** **

** **

 

 **She**  first sees him when she's working full time in an old diner in East Los Angeles, an old jukebox faintly crooning the tales of loss and heartbreak, her dark brown eyes wandering over the beautiful ink on his caramel skin. She wonders what stories he has to tell and reminds herself  that she's three weeks into her new job and she already has a crush on some guy she has just glanced at. _Way to go, Grace._

  
_A cute guy,_ she thinks, _sitting all alone by himself . . ._  
  
The young man wears a blue letterman jacket over a white tank top. He wears the embodiment of Death on his face, a scythe on his forehead, tally marks etched over his left eyebrow. Nicola, her best friend, notices her curious lingering gaze and draws her attention.  
  
"Be careful with that one. They say he's El Diablo ," she warns.

Grace shoots her a look. "Why?"  
  
Nicola glances over to the man, making sure he's not eavesdropping or looking their way. He's not, his thin tattooed fingers linking together, staring out the window, watching the fast-paced nightlife of East L.A. go by. She keeps her voice lowered though. "You didn't hear this from me, okay? They say he controls fire. Like _real_ fire -- out of nothing. They think he's cursed because bad things keep happening when he's around. My brother says he's always been like that since the day he was born. Everywhere he goes, something burns. Always."  
  
"That's . . . kinda harsh, isn't it? I mean --" Grace begins.  
  
"Sweetie, you haven't lived here long enough to see what he does," Nicola cuts in with a serious look. "Trust me." The jukebox plays its last note as it winds down, leaving the television speaking quietly through the speakers, announcing the story of the 49th Daytona 500 winner and the capture of the metahuman who tried to stop it. "Now, be a good _chica_ and make some money, _hermanda_ . You have a customer to serve."  
  
Nicola backs away, leaving Grace speechless. She sighs, tucking her blouse back into her jeans and takes a moment to collect herself and walks over to the man with her notepad and pen in hand. She puts on her brightest smile and asks, "Can I get you anything to eat?"  
  
He turns his head at the sound of her voice, seemingly surprised that she's addressing him. Their eyes meet and she notices a hardness to them as he scans over her figure warily. Like _she's_ dangerous. She almost wants to laugh but her eyes betray her out of curiosity, darting down to the exposed tattoo on his hand: **_213_ ** and the word **DIABLO** screaming across his chin and fights the urge to swallow. She holds her posture and smile, praying for the uncomfortable silence to end and counts to ten, waiting for the time to announce the specials they are currently serving that day. God, she hates this job, but it pays money and she needs it desperately. She's about to open her mouth when he speaks for the first time. It's softer than she expects, somewhat rough around the edges, a hint of a Spanish accent pushing through.  
  
"Water's fine."  
  
She blinks. Her mouth parts in a little "o" and snaps back to reality, jotting down his request. "Anything else?"  
  
He doesn't speak and turns his head to stare back out the window again. Okay, then. Across the poorly-lit street, the bus makes its routine stop and an elderly man shuffles home with a young woman in heels by his side.  
  
She tucks her notepad into her apron pocket and heads behind the counter to get the man's glass of water. While there, she notices Miguel's piece of pie sitting alone uneaten, unwanted, wrapped in leftover tinfoil, which is a shame considering it's a damn good pie. And as Dean Winchester always says, there's nothing wrong with pie. And besides, she thinks a slice of pie might brighten up the man's night, shooting a glance at the remaining locals sitting on the other side of the diner at the counter, giving dirty looks to the young man.  
  
She thinks they're wrong to judge someone that they barely know. Hell, _she_ barely knows him, he's a stranger for God's sake, but she finds herself wondering what the story is behind him, behind those beautiful tattoos, if the story that Nicola told her was true. Is it real? Or is it not?  
  
She takes a chance. Besides, her shift is almost finished and then she can go home.  
  
She realizes she's been stalling for a minute or so for a freaking glass of water, so she decides to make an unceremonious decision and grabs Miguel's piece, swirling Whip-It! on top. She begins to panic slightly -- what if he doesn't like cool whip on pie? What if he doesn't like pie at all? Does anybody sane put homemade cool whip on their pie?-- and then decides _fuck it_ and heads to his table with his order.  
  
"Here you go. One glass of water and a free pumpkin pie, compliments of the diner. Enjoy!" She sets the plate down and wrapped utensils next to it and turns sharply to avoid embarrassment -- oh God, why the fuck did she do this? She's never acted this way before, ever.  
  
She's about halfway to the counter, ignoring Nicola's disbelieving look when she hears, "Thanks, Grace."  
  
Surprised and fear ripples through her because she wasn't expecting him to speak again and how the hell did he know her name? She practically spins around and says, "You're welcome. It was nothing."  
  
He takes another bite of the pie, glancing at her. Apparently she must've had a confused (terrified?) expression on her face because he mumbles between chews, "Nametag."  
  
Lo and behold when Grace looks down to her breast pocket on her blouse, there is is, etched forever in shitty copper plate is her name. She wants to smack herself for her own stupidity, barely resisting the urge to do so. She stammers out something unintelligible, returning to the counter by Nicola's side and watches as he continues to devour the pie like there's no tomorrow. She finds herself smiling somewhat, understanding how the man feels. It _is_ a damn good pie. Nicola's shift is over and although she insists on staying, Grace persuades her to leave, promising she'll lock up the diner when everyone leaves. Grace ignores the uncomfortable stares around her and begins to busy herself, wiping the countertop currently not in use. She's so engrossed in her work that she doesn't realize a tattooed hand is setting down the empty glass and plate in front of her. She looks up.  
  
"Can I have another piece?"  
  
Grace suddenly wishes that she isn't here. She didn't plan on taking it this far. This is probably why she never has any boyfriends. "Um, that was the last piece, I'm sorry." She's apologetic and sees his downcast face contort in understanding. He starts to turn away and the next rush of words burst out of her like an unstoppable force. "But I can make some more. It'll be a while though."  
  
The corners of his lips twitch in amusement. "I can wait."  
  
"Okay."  
  
It comes out as a whisper and Grace finds herself smiling back at the tattooed man. She retreats toward the kitchen to make the Devil's pie, humming softly to herself while she puts it all together. Thank God Miguel has another copy of his pie recipe hanging on the fridge. When she heads back to the counter with his pie an hour later, he smiles genuinely, or so she thinks. It's nice to see. She turns to give him another glass of water.  
  
"You got a problem?" His voice is suddenly harsh and cold, threatening almost and Grace turns her head back in confusion. The two local men sitting at the counter have risen from their spots, facing the tattooed man with an intent to cause harm. She feels it and sees their body language shift menacingly.  
  
"We don't want you here, Diablo," one man spits. " _You_ don't belong here."  
  
"Go back to where you came from!" another growls.  
  
Diablo tightens his grip around the glass and she can see he's getting angry. He chuckles mirthlessly and slides off the stool he's sitting on. "You still have no idea what I can do, do you? You still think it's fake."  
  
Grace is frozen. Her heart thunders wildly in her chest and she can't bring herself to move. She knows she needs to leave but the back door isn't fixed until tomorrow and the only exit out is by the local men.  
  
"I can see all your pretty little sins as clear as day, each one of you. Jermane, what would your wife think if she really knew what you were doing on the weekends? And Ted? The dog, really?" Diablo asks in an accusing tone, shaking his head. "Now, I don't want to destroy this beautiful diner and this _chica bonita_ here, so back off. Now. And apologize for what you said about her."  
  
The men exchange glances, unsure whether he's bluffing. Finally they decide he's not, refusing to sprout any apologizes whatsoever and charge at him, switchblades from their pockets raised high. One man heads toward Grace while the other lunges for Diablo but in an instant everything changes.  
  
She sees him look at her for what seems to be a long time before he grimaces. Diablo sweeps out his hands in an arch in front of him and balls of flame ignite in his palms, traveling down to his wrists.  
  
"Leave. Now." El Diablo thunders, his voice growing deeper.  
  
As if to prove his point, Diablo’s eyes glow orange and the flames spread farther around his body. Grace knows she should be afraid - screaming, in fact. And she does, not because of El Diablo, but because she feels the cut of the blade as she tries to run, feel the man drag the sharp end halfway into her throat. blood rushes into her mouth and she tries to fight the river of blood that's drowning her, falling to the floor, grasping for hope as her fingers press the skin back together . . . but she's mesmerized by the haunting melody the flames are singing, flickering orange shadows dancing across his skin, illuminating the hatred in his eyes. He throws his arms out, preparing to hit the two men with a fireball, but they wisely make the decision to bolt and El Diablo extinguishes the flames quickly, dropping his arms to his side. The entrance door shuts and the bell chimes and goes silent.  
  
He rushes to Grace, unable to meet her eyes, tattooed skeletal fingers wrapping around hers to stop the bleeding. She's gasping, gasping, gasping for -- A phone is pressed against his ear and she sees his lips moving rapidly, sound distorted, her vision beginning to blur together, threatening to fall into endless darkness.  
  
Her heart pounds wildly in her chest and she struggles to breathe. He seems to hesitate, unsure what to do, then decides to curl their fingers together. She clutches it desperately, her body ready to fail her. "Breathe, Grace. It's okay. It's okay, Grace. I'm so sorry."  
  
Speckled drops of red laughter burst past her bloodstained lips before she can stop it. "El Diablo," she gargles out, recalling Nicola's story. Grace is not frightened nor upset like she thinks she would be in a situation like this. Instead, it's a mixture of gratefulness toward the Devil for trying to save her life and a million other emotions she can't explain running through her veins.

He smiles halfheartedly, tapping his fingers around hers nervously, her blood seeping pass as he tries to stop the bleeding. "The Devil," he translates for her. "No. Not all the time. I was born with the Devil's gift. My name's Chato Santana."  
  
“Elizondo," she chokes out her last name, because what else do you say after a thing like that? He gently reaches out and squeezes her hand, her thumb slightly brushing over the heavily-inked 213 on the back of his hand when he stokes her hair subconsciously.  She tries to focus on her breathing, to keep the strength to live even though the Devil's flames -- Chato's flames linger burning forever in her mind. She thinks back to the old Aztec Gods her ancestors used to pray to, her Grandmother whispering ancient superstitions in her ear, warning of the Devil's mark being branded forever in her heart. All the things she could never explain, how it always seemed to find her . . . Is this the answer to her questions? This man born from flames owned by the Underworld and paintings inked on his skin, waiting to be told.  
  
Is this what she's destined for? To die in the arms of the Devil?  
  
"Stay with me, Grace," El Diablo murmurs as if in response to her voiceless question. "I’m not gonna let you die tonight. Help is coming. Close your eyes and dream with me."  
  
Her eyes flutter helplessly and she finds herself drifting into a sea of ink and fire lurking behind her eyes.  
  
__  
  
He stands in front of her, hand outstretched in a gesture of trust, waiting for her to accept it so he can lead her back home. And so she lets him, blood boiling underneath his fiery touch as he guides her back into the world of the living and of breath.  
  
She thinks that she could've chosen to stay if she wanted to but then she thinks of her parents and reminds herself of the fact that one set of family has already been stolen from them. They don't need another to add to their wall of grief and mourning. She hears her father's voice, tearfully telling her that it would be okay if she left, they would understand and another voice telling her to fight with the spirit she has. So she fights. And the continuous steady beat of her heart rises again.  
  
She panics when she wakes, hands thrashing wildly at the tube shoved down her throat, desperate to pull the IV's away from her flowing veins. She doesn't remember what happens at first because Chato is not there by her side. Her father and mother try their best to explain what happened to her to no avail. She only remembers her name: Grace, falling from Grace into the arms of --  
  
Today is her birthday and she dreams of the hope the ripe age of 24 has to offer. The white scar on her neck serves as a reminder and a curse to bear, suffering from distorted flashbacks that make no sense are all, reminding her she is a survivor and she should honor it. She remembers the feeling of dread every time she steps behind the counter, looking toward an empty booth, wishing, waiting for someone to show himself again. She doesn't understand where this unhealthy obsession comes from and knows it fuels her darkest desires deep inside. She keeps her ears out for the mention of El Diablo and prays he'll show up again someday. Not because of her crush but she needs to thank him. He has saved her life and revived her from the Dead and she's grateful. Grace feels like if she thanks him, she can finally try to move on with her life.  
  
So why is this one thing keep holding her back? She knows most people in the movies will honor their protector in their memories, create a goal to reunite with them and change lives forever. But how does that work when he's the Devil and you're a mere mortal in a vessel filled with the remainder of your soul?  
  
She wonders briefly whether the name he has given her is real or fake, perhaps it is an alias? She heads to the library when she gets the chance, walking to a vacated computer, logging in with her library account. Her Google Search results reveal nothing but several MySpace profiles and searches further, remembering the back of his letterman jacket reading: Thee Hillsides.  
  
Or maybe it was The Hillsiders? She finds one small article which explains a local gang is terrorizing nearby neighborhoods, warning for people to remain cautious and stay safe. It offers no insight on who the members are or who the leader of the gang is, expect for the mention of showcasing tattoos. Another article looks promising so she prints it off and finds another newspaper article, photocopying it to read later. Grace sighs as she gets into her car, driving home and tries her best to sleep after changing into comfortable pajamas. Nothing seems to help, bolting from her bed, fingers reaching for her throat again, a scream ready to rip from her mouth. She sobs, muffling her cries, her body shaking, fingers trembling in fear as she wraps her arms around herself, rocking back and forth slightly.

She knows she should get help, therapy at least, but she doesn't have enough money for that. Everyone knows that she's not okay even when she tries her best to hide it and her boss decides to let her go despite her protests. Grace knows that her boss has good intentions and realizes that she had been wrestling with the idea of quitting for a while.

She's looking for job openings (while also scanning through the newspaper article for more information about The Hillsiders) with Nicola in her friend’s apartment red Sharpie in hand. Nicola keeps looking over at her when she thinks Grace isn't looking but she can feel it.

“What's the deal?” Grace asks, swiveling around in Nicola's chair. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Nicola exhales, setting her Dell laptop aside and leans in toward Grace, her legs crossed underneath her. “You survived _El Diablo_ ,” she says bluntly. “You should be dead.”

“Would you rather I be dead?” Grace retorts sharply. “He saved my life, Nicola. That's all you need to know.”

Nicola's silent. After a moment, she finally speaks. “It's just . . . Nevermind. Did you find anything?”

“Uh, no,” Grace starts, unsuccessfully able to switch newspapers as Nicola walks over, “I --”

Nicola leans over her shoulder, lips silently reading the caption: **_GANG TAKEOVER IN LOCAL NEIGHBORHOOD IN SOUTH EAST L.A._ ** and shoots a look toward Grace.

 ****

 

 _EASTSIDE (AP) –  More than 10 residents of a neighborhood in a local neighborhood in East L.A. fled from their homes following threats from a gang, authorities said Thursday. It was at least the second such exodus this week._  
  
_People in El Sereno on Los Angeles east side told local television that tattooed gang members armed with various weapons appeared Wednesday night and destroyed and ransacked several stores and houses and announced that residents had 24 hours to abandon their homes or face the consequences. They also distributed flyers, proclaiming themselves to be Thee Hillsiders._  
  
_El Sereno police spokesman Josè Garcia said at a news conference that more than 12 people fled El Sereno. "Gang members have the people of El Sereno  terrified, but we are here to re-establish order," he said._  
  
_The former policeman also tried to reassure residents they would be kept safe. "We urge residents to return to their homes because we have posted police and soldiers to protect their lives and possessions," he said._  
  
_About 20 police and soldiers patrolled the neighborhood Thursday._  
  
_A young man who has remained unidentified said a man with tattoos lurked through the streets the whole night ordering to the gang members to go to specific abandoned buildings and had shouted in the street: "Everyone who lives here has to go!"_  
  
_"He summoned fire out of nothing," Sara Martínez, an eyewitness said. "It was unbelievable to see."_  
  
_"My family doesn't have anywhere to go, but we're going because we're scared we'll lose our lives if we don't," resident Anton Romero said. "He shouldn't be able to control fire. It's unnatural. He's El Diablo."_  
  
_The small neighborhood clinging to a hillside was occupied by squatters about 20 years ago. Thee Hillsiders and MS-13 gangs compete for control of the neighborhood and other former members allegedly issued the threat._

“You’re trying to find him?” Nicola’s voice grows cold, turning to look into Grace’s eyes. It wasn’t a question, but a statement, and Grace knows she isn’t pleased with this. “After all he did?”

Grace says nothing. The evidence is there, there’s no use in lying and she knows she won’t get away with it.

Nicola lets of a string of Spanish words Grace doesn’t recognize. “I thought you would let this go,” she tells her, shaking her head slightly. She sits on the edge on her bed, facing Grace. “I’ve never asked, but . . . was he the one that . . .”

Grace’s fingers trail up to the scar, feeling the small bumps underneath, tracing the line subconsciously.  “No. It . . . It was Jermane.”

Nicola swears underneath her breath. “I should’ve stayed.”

“Nee, it wasn’t your fault,” Grace replies, leaning forward, “ _I_ was the one who made you go. I thought I could handle it. It’s not your fault.”

“Still I should've stayed. I knew something bad was going to happen and I ignored my instincts,” Nicola continues. Her eyes begin to fill with tears. "And you . . ."

 _Almost died._ It's unspoken, hanging in the air as Nicola struggles for words and Grace gives her a hug, understanding how her friend feels. They may have not been on best terms lately considering her attempted murder and Grace pushing her away somewhat, but Nicola has always stood by her even if she didn't agree with it. Nicola sniffles and Grace assures her it's okay while handing her tissues. She's never been the best at comforting people but she tries. They sit in silence for a few more seconds, embracing each other in comfort.

Finally her friend pulls back. "Look at me," Nicola says, a small chuckle coming out as she wipes her tears away. She seems like she's in thought and Grace hesitantly leaves her be, about to turn back to her article but an _“Oh, shit!”_ from Nicola makes her turn back again.  
  
"What? What happened? What's wrong?"

"Here," Nicola thrusts a paper -- no, a flyer -- into Grace's empty hands. “I almost forgot.”

 

"Okay," Grace says hesitantly, unsure why Nicola is giving her this. "And . . . why should I care about this?"  
  
“Because . . . a little birdie told me the other day you like to dance. And get this: they're hiring.”  
  
“Uh-huh?” She stares at the flyer, furrowing her brows in thought. She hasn't danced in a while with everything that's been going on and realizes she missed it. Maybe it's time to take it back up again.  
  
“And . . .” Nicola hurries on, catching Grace’s attention in a tone that strikes her curiosity. “Miguel told me your El Diablo likes to hang out there.”  
  
“Really?” she says quickly, coughing  to cover up her excitement, “I mean, really?”  
  
Nicola smiles, giving her a knowing look. “So . . . What I'm thinking is, if you get a job there, you can see him and tell him thanks for saving your life.”  
  
“You're a genius, Nee,” Grace exclaims happily, throwing her arms around her, embracing her tightly once again. “I could kiss you.”  
  
Nicola leans back. “Nope. These lips belong to my baby girl only. I know you're grateful and everything but you can pay me back by--”  
  
“Giving you the last _Harry Potter_ book,” Grace finishes with her, breaking into a giggle, "I know. You tell me that every time."  
  
"Justine's been wanting to read the _Chamber of Secrets_ , and I told her _"You gotta do your chores, hija"_ but she's at that rebellious preteen stage where no one listens."  
  
"Wait til she's sixteen," Grace reminds her. "Then you'll really have your hands full."  
  
"Oh, God," Nicola groans with a small smile, flopping back into her bed, arms thrown over her face. "Don't remind me."

Grace laughs, noticing the time on the clock, realizing that it’s later in the evening than she had previously thought it would be. She begins collecting her stuff while Nicola mumbles something about Justine better not be hiding her Nintendo DS underneath the covers and goes to check. Grace glances down at the flyer in her hand, the name of the club echoing in her mind, finding it seemingly ironic that Diablo -- no, his name’s Chato she reminds herself, likes to hang out at a club named after Hell. Maybe she should’ve expected that since he literally summoned fire out of nothing. She remembers the crackle of flames around her, the distant scream ripping from her throat in a way that didn’t sound like hers, the feeling of his lips pressing against hers and--

_Wait, what?_

Where’d that last part come from? She knows they never kissed but why then does it seem and feel like they did? And what purpose would he have for kissing her when she’s on the verge of death? Did she die? Did--

 _Did I die?_ Grace thinks to herself, trying to remember. She remembers being in a state of fear and desperation when she woke, her hands pulling at the breathing tube down her throat . . .

 _Dream with me,_ Chato’s voice whispers. _Help is coming._

“Grace.”

She’s jerked out of the whirlwind of her thoughts, finding Nicola staring back at her with a concern look on her face, clutching the flyer to her chest.

“You okay _chica_?” Nicola asks tentatively.

“Yeah, I just . . . zoned out for a sec. Hey, do you mind if I keep this?” Grace asks, gesturing with the flyer in her hand. Nicola nods and judging from the expression on her face, Grace knows she doesn't believe her. But she’s grateful that she doesn’t pressure her.

“I’ll go tomorrow to fill out an application,” Grace tells her as they walk to Nicola’s front door.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“Nah,” Grace lies. She tries not to think of the scar etched on her throat. She _does_ want Nicola to go with her but she also knows she can’t have a hand holding onto hers forever.  “I got it. Thanks though.”

“Be safe. Text me when you’re there.”

Grace promises that she will and heads out, hearing the door shut quietly behind her. The silence in the poorly-lit hallway is almost eerie but she hears the sound of a television playing behind the walls and the sound of someone coughing and shuffling around as she heads up the stairs. She fumbles for her keys with the newspaper roll in one hand and unlocks the door into her apartment.

She sighs with relief, happy she’s home, slipping off her shoes as she sets down the items on the island, heading to the shower, stripping bare,  letting the hot water pound into her tense muscles and tries to think of her next move.

**_oOo_**

**NEXT:** Chapter Two

**NOTES:**

It's finally here! This is my first Suicide Squad fanfic and I'm so excited for you all to read this because I thought we needed to see how Grace and Chato met. This story will cover both Grace's and Chato's past, as well as leading to the events of Suicide Squad and the aftermath of the Midway City/Incubus/Enchantress ordeal.

Corina Calderon is the actress that plays Diablo's wife, Grace in the Suicide Squad movie.

This is also cross-posted on Fanfiction.net and Wattpad!

Also, I am not a native Spanish speaker, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know.

This chapter was beta-proofed by the amazing sirgnomethegiant on Tumblr! Go check her blog out. She was kind enough to give me more insight and ask questions I never would've originally thought of and helped make this a better experience to read. :)

Please, if you can, try to leave a review and comment your thoughts. Follow TheRisingAlleria and thegracesantana on Tumblr for more updates!

Thank you so much for reading!

\- Alleria

 


	2. and down the rabbit hole, she goes

**Rating** **:** Mature

 **Word Count:** 3,013

 **Chapter Warnings:** PTSD, Suicide, Drug Abuse

 **Pairing:** Grace/Chato Santana

 **Summary:** _Grace Santana knew what she was getting into when she first laid eyes on the tattooed man they called El Diablo. Temptation’s hard to resist and after all, who can say they fell in love with and married the Devil?_

 **Promos:**[ **[Final Promo]**](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149566550297/grace-santana-knew-what-she-was-getting-into-when) **|** [**[Promo #3]**](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149523874122/grace-finds-herself-smiling-back-at-the-tattooed) **|**[ **[Promo #2]**](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149485188682/she-thinks-theyre-wrong-to-judge-someone-that) **|**[ **[Promo #1]**](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149429647857/she-first-sees-him-when-shes-working-full-time)

 **read:** [ **ffnet** ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12127170/1/Closer-to-the-Fire) **|** [ **wattpad** ](https://www.wattpad.com/305384357-closer-to-the-fire-chapter-one) **|** [ **tumblr** ](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149720046802/closer-to-the-fire-part-one-rating-matureteen)

**↳ please try to leave a review/kudos/reblog! :)**

__

**ii.**

**GRACE**

** S ** he doesn't remember how she got here.

Here she is in the shower, cold water running down her back, with no memory of how or why she ended up in here, covered in mud or ash or whatever the hell it is all over her body. Her body seems to be on autopilot and her mind seemingly stuffed with cotton balls, a faint ringing in her ears. Her vision warps as she blinks slowly, struggling to make sense of what's happening to her. She imagines her wound opening once again,  blo od pouring in rivers down her breasts and begins to panic.

 “It’s not real, it’s not real,” she chants over and over. She shuts her eyes and counts to ten, reminding herself to breathe.

_ It’s okay, Grace. _

Chato’s voice startles her and she whips her head to look behind her to make sure he isn’t there and he isn’t. She swears it sounded like he was just behind her and oh God, she’s going crazy. She’s crazy.

 She looks down and sees nothing on her body, the water underneath her feet clear as day; her fingers gripping her hair as she presses her hands against her head.

“It’s okay . . . It’s okay.”

 The faint of smoke lingers in the air and she wonders otherwise.

She wakes screaming, hands reaching for her throat, scrambling in a panic to escape the smothering protection of her blankets, twisting and turning, hitting the hard floor below with a  thump.  She pants, breathing hard as she presses herself against the wall, trying to calm herself down, rocking back and forth. Her hand fumbles for the prescription bottle on her nightstand and she swallows, gulping down the rest of her water desperately.

Her shaking subsides after a moment, her thumb pressed against her lips, tears running down her cheeks and all she wants is for the pain, the hallucinations to stop. A voice from upstairs, downstairs --she doesn't know where-- screams for her to “shut the fuck up” and “I'm trying to sleep here, bitch!”

She's about to issue an apology to the voice when she's interrupted by the sound of her alarm clock clicking on, tuning into the current radio station, announcing her wake-up call for the day.

_ But you see _  
_I'm not here for your entertainment_  
_You don't really want to mess with me tonight_  
_Just stop and take a second_  
_I was fine before you walked into my life_  
_Cause you know it's over_  
_Before it began--_

It takes a moment longer than usual to move, her movements stilted and somewhat choppy, shutting the alarm clock off and opening her bedroom curtain. Bright sunlight streams in from behind the blinds, signaling a much later start of the day than she's originally thinks it is. She glances at the clock, the time sinking into her brain and snaps to reality, rushing to grab her clothes.

She hadn't meant to sleep in the remainder of the afternoon, rushing to brush her hair and searching for her car keys, the Inferno flyer in her hand. It takes her several twists and turns and a five minute session trying to find a decent parking spot before she finds the club. It looks nothing special on the outside, but she knows appearances can be deceiving. The bouncer at the front door eyes her up and down when she approaches, only letting her inside when she explains she has an appointment with the manager.

Inside . . . well, it's not what she expects, although she should've known better.

Nicola has failed to mention that this was also a strip club.

Near the stage, a pair of barely dressed women with more than enough cleavage, slide up and down a pole each, smirking sexily at some of the randy looking men that stand in a small crowd in front of the center of the stage. One woman, dressed in a dark red sequinned bra with matching panties, black suspenders and silver heels, climbs to the top of the pole and then lets herself slide down, crooking one leg and throwing the opposite arm out in a showcase way. When she hits the bottom, she begins spinning around the pole, trailing her fingers up and down the metal, as she spins in the men's direction and she winks before continuing in a circle.

There's an empty bar near the stage, where the bartender finishes preparing a drink for one lone customer and looking around some more, she finds the manager’s office. The booming remixed song blaring from the speakers around her dims down a little and she knocks, announcing her presence.

She stumbles a bit on her interview after introducing herself, but tries her best to remain honest, explaining her previous job experience and what it was like, giving suitable answers to what the manager hopefully wants to hear. The manager, who is a middle-aged woman, inquires about the scar on her neck and she feels herself begin to freeze. Eventually she tells the truth, although she wisely leaves Chato out of it.

Finally, after what seems like a long moment of pondering, the manager who had introduced herself as Krissy in the beginning, tells her that Grace has three options: become a stripper, a waitress, or a bartender.

She chooses the one that she thinks she can do the best at.

It takes a while to get used to the environment but she learns, picking up new hints and tricks along the way and gains some regulars during the next few days. Grace also finds a way to answer the "When are we going to see you onstage?" questions without prompting further questions. She adds her own style while she works, using her graceful movements to avoid grabby hands and bumping into strangers while she hands them their orders. A short black dress that showcases her curves and cleavage a bit hugs her body each night and she finds that the more she dolls herself up, the better tips she makes. Her rosary hangs around her neck for protection.

She admits that she's tempted to ditch her waitressing days and trade them for high heels and sexy lingerie. Self-consciousness is a funny thing though, she thinks. She determines that  she'll wait until she figures  out the tricks to stripping, watching her co-workers do their jobs; how these gorgeous women of all body type weave their sexuality into some kind of all-powerful tractor beam of potential pleasure. And she watches the men (and some women) who are powerless to control it succumb to them.

She's on her third day, working nights as usual, when she notices something's off. The club is livelier than usual, considering it's a weekend and she watches young men parade their money around like they're in some music video and catcall to the dancers in front of them. But she notices a lot of people turn their heads repeatedly to look at the entrance nervously as if they're afraid of whatever --or whoever-- will come through the door.

No one answers her when she asks. They tell her she's better off not knowing and to stay away. This only makes her more determined to find out who they're so afraid of. She's finishing her order for one newcomer when she feels it. The atmosphere around them gets hotter and the lights seem to dim and flicker and the murmuring from the club patrons slowly comes to stop.

Her heart begins to pump wildly in her chest as she forces herself to look up from her tray and turn around. It isn't hard to miss him. After all, he's the only one covered in tattoos from head to toe here. Grace can't stop staring at him, halfway to her destination point, balancing her tray in one hand as he walks through the club, exuding dominance from every bone in his body.

His presence is comforting and afflicting all at once.  _I can finally thank him for saving my life_ ,  she thinks.

She watches as men scramble out of Chato’s way, rushing to find another seat near the stage and tears her eyes away momentarily to give her customers their order. She hesitates, seeing him find a chair to settle in, his eyes set on the dancer in front of him, shrugging off the blue letterman jacket he wore last time. The other customers give him a wide berth, chattering among themselves quietly and she realizes that no other waitresses have come up to him, avoiding him at all cost. She watches his fingers tap to the beat of the music on the chair’s armrest as the stripper dances around the pole.

_ What if he doesn't remember me? What if this whole thing’s for nothing? Oh, God. Maybe I should've just left this alone. _

But still, she grabs a glass of water for him before she can change her mind, heading toward him, ignoring the customers’ wide eyes and murmurs of disbelief underneath their breaths. A burst of courage strikes through her and she walks with confidence toward El Diablo.

Grace stands in front of him, blocking the view of the dancer, holding out a simple glass of water in her hand, his head cocking to the side a bit. His eyes rake over her newfound outfit, taking in her new appearance in. His lips twitch in the corners, not reaching a full smile, but the recognition is there in his eyes when he sees her. 

“You dancing for me tonight, _cariño_?” he asks as the music switches to a softer beat, accepting the water from her. She notices that he's careful not to touch her fingers, his gaze lingering on her scar for a moment longer than necessary, his smile fading, his dark brown eyes growing cold and hard.

She can't help but chuckle. “Not tonight, Chato.”

“Hmm. Maybe some other time then?” 

She tilts her head, pretending to think about it. “Maybe.” Her eyes wander around, unable to meet his and struggles to come up with an opening to thank him. “Hey, um . . . I . . .”

Her lips moved wordlessly as she tried to figure out what to say. This should be easy, she thinks. Why is this so hard now?  Say it!

But she can't. She keeps remembering her throat being sliced open, the blood rushing into her mouth, her lungs, and _oh_ _ GOD I CAN’T BREATHE -- _

And like the coward she is, she flees.

  **_oOo_**

She runs to hide in the back room, breath trembling as she pops another pill into her mouth from the bottle inside her purse, grimacing in disgust at the harsh and dry taste on her tongue, her other hand fingering the silver rosary, gripping it tight as she shuts her eyes briefly.

She pushes the door open only to find that she's not alone. A woman is lying on the floor,  a puddle of blood underneath her red hair, feverishly pale, her lips pale, cracked and bloodstained, her eyes open and glazed over, seeing something but nothing at all. Near the young woman's arm, lies a syringe recently used.

But all she sees is her brother.

_ She's a little girl again, hitting the age of eight, blissfully unaware of the horrors the world has to offer. Her parents are away at work and her Grandmother is going to be here any moment. But now, she's bored. The television plays quietly as she skips up the stairs, heading to her brother's room, wanting him to play with her, her favorite stuffed lion dangling from one hand. _

_ He's been different since he came back from the war, but unlike his funny self. He's been distant, more angry. He yells at Mom and Dad a lot and they have fights and this scares her. He promises to her that he'll never hurt her though and she believes him, even though she doesn't understand why he's changed. Besides, he's the one who always listens to her and finds different ways to make her laugh. _

_ “Jeremy?” _

_ She pushes his bedroom door open and sees no sign of him anywhere. It's strange because she knows he hasn't left his bedroom. Maybe he's playing a new game for her. _

_ She remembers that he has his own bathroom and goes to check, seeing the door closed. She knocks with much strength her eight-year-old self can muster, determined to have someone play with her. _

_ “Jeremy?” she calls again. No answer. She gets worried, looking down below her feet, seeing a puddle of water and tries the door handle, finding it unlocked and slowly pushes it open, the creak from the door hinges making her be on edge. Something blocks the door and she pushes harder with a grunt. _

_ She manages to slip through the opening she's created. His laundry hamper slides out of the way. She sees him slumped next to the tub, red splattering his wrists, angry red spots littering his elbow, head lolled back, eyes staring up the ceiling. The tub overflows with the running water from the faucet behind him, mingling with his blood which swirls underneath her bare feet. _

_ She's not sure what to do but she runs to Jeremy’s side, hands on his face, trying to rouse because he's just sleeping, right? Sleeping with his eyes open? People do that right? He's playing a prank on her, a nasty prank and she wants it to stop. _

_ But his skin’s so coldsocoldso _

_ A scream rips through her tiny body and she drops Roary, slipping on the wet tiles in a mad scramble to get downstairs to call 911. _

_ You can't wake up, this is not a dream. _

Her mind snaps quickly back to reality and she feels for a pulse. Nothing. She knows from the puddle of blood underneath the young woman’s head and the blood trickling out from the corner of her lips that she’s past saving. Her dull lifeless eyes stare into the empty abyss of stars and Grace gently shuts her eyes out of respect.

The girl’s been dead for a while, she thinks. She wonders how long and feels guilty that she didn’t find her sooner. Her breathing turns ragged and her hands shake and she presses them together to calm herself down enough to make a phone call to Emergency Services. She has to repeat herself several times so the operator can understand her and then they promise an ambulance will be sent over.

She has to tell Krissy what happened. And with difficulty, she staggers to her feet and heads to the manager’s office in an almost zombie-like trance. Krissy takes in her disheveled appearance and demands to know what happened. She explains the situation as best as she can in a calm voice and leads her to the back room.

It isn’t until when the police and the ambulance arrives that she breaks down and throws up.

Krissy tells her she can go home but she can’t. She can’t let herself be weak. She can’t let this happen to her again. She can’t --

_ “What happened to you?”  _ a voice asks in the back of her head.

The Devil happened, she remembers. _This whole thing didn't start until he came into her life._ _ He’s not the only villain you’ve crossed paths with, remember? _

“I gotta get out of here,” she chokes out.

A hoard of m oving, dancing half-naked bodies surround her, their sweat and arousal mixing with the smell of the lights and smoke synchronized to the beat of the music the DJ plays. Grace weaves her way through the crowd of dancing and grinding bodies around her until someone accidentally bumps back into her, causing her to stagger forward to the floor. But she catches herself and finally after what seems like eternity, bursts through the front entrance door.

Rain immediately pours down on her when she leaves the sanctuary of the Inferno Club and walks quickly to her parking spot, still hearing the music from the outside, fishing around for her keys in her purse so she can go home.

“Come on!” she grunts in frustration. “Where are you?" 

Thunder only rumbles in response and she can’t take it anymore. She throws her purse down, raising her head to the sky, her arms outstretched and lets out an anguished scream that she’s been holding in since the night at the diner.

 “What do you want from me?! Huh?! What’d I ever do to deserve this?!”

She sinks to her knees, rain soaking her dress but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t give a fuck, not after what happened tonight. It’s like the world’s out to get her, throwing old painful memories in her mind, desperate to see her break into a porcelain doll. She shuts herself down and lets the music take her over. She slowly rises to a stand, her body swaying side to side and lets herself go.

The natural movements of her body instinctively takes her away to the only place she's ever felt comfort.

 Music and dance is her peace.  


They make her feel whole again.  


She dances like it's her last show, as if her life, her happiness, her world depended on it. Gliding fluently around the empty parking lot spaces near her from one place to the other. Turning and twisting, leaping through the air as if she’s been a swan in captivity all her life.

Finally, free.

She’s finally free.  
  
She slows down when the music stops. She wipes away the rain from her face so she can breathe and opens her eyes to find Chato standing in front of her, her eyes wide in surprise that he’s caught her in this state.

“How long . . . have you been standing there?”

“Few minutes,” he answers. “I came out here to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine,” she lies. She knows she isn’t and the makeup smeared on her face certainly doesn’t help either.

Chato’s face remains unwavered and then he holds out his hand. “Dance with me,” he says.

**_oOo_**

**NEXT UP: Chapter Three - Chato's P.O.V.**

**NOTES:**

First of all, let me tell you guys I am so overwhelmed by the positive responses this story has gotten so far! Thank you all so much and I hope this story won't disappoint as it continues! You all have motivated me to write further into the story of Grace and Chato's life and I'm pleased that you all seem to be enjoying this! :)

This chapter was originally 5,000+ words but I decided to split it up into two parts. Hope you guys enjoy this one because another chapter's coming out later tonight! :)

As the story progresses, things are going to become more dark and mature and we'll get a glimpse into Thee Hillsiders lifestyle.

This is also cross-posted on Fanfiction.net and Wattpad!

Also, I am not a native Spanish speaker, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know. (I used Google Translate!)

This chapter was beta-proofed by the amazing sirgnomethegiant on Tumblr! Go check her blog out. She was kind enough to give me more insight and ask questions I never would've originally thought of and helped make this a better experience to read. :)

Please, if you can, try to leave a review and comment your thoughts. Follow TheRisingAlleria and thegracesantana on Tumblr for more updates!

Thank you so much for reading!

\- Alleria


	3. tell me how i'm suppose to breathe

**Rating** **:** Mature

 **Word Count:** 2,188

 **Chapter Warnings:** Blood, Implied Rape, Suicide (Mentioned)

 **Pairing:** Grace/Chato Santana  
  
**Summary:** _Grace Santana knew what she was getting into when she first laid eyes on the tattooed man they called El Diablo. Temptation’s hard to resist and after all, who can say they fell in love with and married the Devil?_

**Promos: [[Final Promo]](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149566550297/grace-santana-knew-what-she-was-getting-into-when&sa=D&ust=1473641535334000&usg=AFQjCNH7ETPJASpXfNiit4yNrlecxqtPqg)  | [[Promo #3]](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149523874122/grace-finds-herself-smiling-back-at-the-tattooed&sa=D&ust=1473641535335000&usg=AFQjCNHR4rvmjXdMT--T6x3CeL59KTZvzw)  |  [[Promo #2]](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149485188682/she-thinks-theyre-wrong-to-judge-someone-that&sa=D&ust=1473641535336000&usg=AFQjCNGf_HiwlxW7CknNToYlHVdnZpGgsw)  |  [[Promo #1]](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149429647857/she-first-sees-him-when-shes-working-full-time&sa=D&ust=1473641535336000&usg=AFQjCNGYGC_bDeUHBhTswlC2CjZHyPREwg) **

** read: [ffnet](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z%3Dhttps%253A%252F%252Fwww.fanfiction.net%252Fs%252F12127170%252F1%252FCloser-to-the-Fire%26t%3DZjAxYmZmMjM4ZTI1Zjc4NWU1MGI3YWQ2NGFlZDE5NjViOTY3NzI4Nyx2azE1aGh4UA%253D%253D&sa=D&ust=1473641535337000&usg=AFQjCNHGWL2rJsHo_aYCBIBnEW5EWDEtLg) | [ao3](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252Farchiveofourown.org%252Fworks%252F7916578%252Fchapters%252F18089293%26t%3DMzQ5NzQ3MjU4YTJmYzU0NDIyZTMwMDA2NmI2NWViNTRhZmNmMzg0ZSx2azE1aGh4UA%253D%253D&sa=D&ust=1473641535338000&usg=AFQjCNEmmNltyXFwKwsjrc7SJLAqPGjgUw) | [wattpad](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z%3Dhttps%253A%252F%252Fwww.wattpad.com%252F305384357-closer-to-the-fire-chapter-one%26t%3DYTc1YzliYjFiODA2ZTRmZjc3NDI0ZTIzODI4NTMxZjgxYjEyN2QxMSx2azE1aGh4UA%253D%253D&sa=D&ust=1473641535339000&usg=AFQjCNFfkvBKuxP23jp1iBYrkQ_PqnCf4A) | [tumblr](http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/150286300302/closer-to-the-fire-part-three)**

**↳ please try to leave a review/kudos/reblog! :)**

 

 **iii.**  

  **CHATO**  

They call him El Diablo.

And El Diablo never sleeps. 

Often, he would go places by himself, not giving a fuck if he was protected or not. It was like asking for a bullet in his head, a death wish that would become his reality one day.  


And maybe he did.  


Maybe he was so fucking tired of being the goddamn Grim Reaper. 

_ How'd you get your powers, Chato? _

_ I died. _

The neighborhood followed him because he made their lives better unlike Bloodletter.

But tonight, there was a pull that he couldn't explain. A diner, he realized. A place he had never noticed until tonight, despite him knowing this city as well as the tattoos on the back of his hand.  


He begins to start coming there more often. No one ever talks to him and he never talks to them, ignoring all the rumors and whispers from the other locals who frequent there. They've heard the stories about him and what he can do. 

And he doesn't give a fuck.

_“Can I get you anything to eat?"_ It's her voice that jars him out of his usual routine - it's cheerful and he wonders, why would anybody be happy to see him? She must be talking to someone else.

He turns his head and takes the young woman in front of him. He doesn't recognize her so he figures she must be new here. The name tag resting against her chest pinned on her blouse reads the name of the waitress.  _ Grace. _

Her smile’s beautiful, nearly as beautiful as the woman it belongs to. The warmth of her presence, it unnerves him. She looks as though she is the physical embodiment of innocence itself, although an unwanted glimpse into her soul proves otherwise.

He sees the suicide of her brother lingering in the back of her mind, feel the unwanted hands and touches of an old lover imprinted on her skin, feel the heat of the flames and the wailing dying screams of her friends as their house burned down to the ground. 

Death surrounds her and yet she struggles to maintain cheerful, upbeat demeanor above it all. Her eyes reveal their curiosity as they dart to his tattoos, she's curious about him.  _Him_ , a monster who can conjure flames from Hell.

He knows the sight of the ink etched across his skin cast a dangerous image into the mind of those who see it, but she doesn't look at him like he's a monster though.

“Water’s fine,” he tells her and he stares out the window, a million of questions running through his mind. 

Grace gives his water and a free pie and he sees the faint blush creeping into her cheeks as he dives into the pie, surprised of how good it tastes. He can't remember the last time someone has treated him like a decent human being. She makes him another and while she's in the kitchen, one man makes a crude comment of him sticking his “dick in her perfect ass”, telling his friend that he'd wait until they were alone.

This makes his blood boil and she returns, the man mimes it when her back is turned and he doesn't stand for that shit. "You got a problem?" 

"We don't want you here, Diablo," one man spits, rising from his seat as the other man follows suit. "You don't belong here."  
  
"Go back to where you came from!" another growls.  
  
He chuckles mirthlessly, slamming down the glass and slides off the stool he's sitting on. "You still have no idea what I can do, do you? You still think it's fake.”

He rattles off a few of their unfortunate events they created in their pasts, like Ted “accidentally” killing his son’s dog with his car and Jermane cheating on his wife with a high school girl on the weekends. They refuse to apologize to Grace and grab switchblades from their pockets, determined to end him once and for all. He sees the fear in their eyes when he summons his fire, see Grace standing there in shock behind the counter and then everything changes.

He hears her scream before its abruptly off, see the spray of her blood running down her clothes as Jermane sinks his blade into her neck as she falls to the floor. He throws his arms out, preparing to hit the two men with a fireball, but they wisely make the decision to bolt and El Diablo extinguishes the flames quickly, dropping his arms to his side. He rushes to Grace, unable to meet her eyes, his fingers wrapping around hers to stop the bleeding.

Her blood seeps past his fingers as he calls for an ambulance, her gasping filling his ears as she tries to hold on. He holds her hand in comfort, his mind racing for any words that can stop him from destroying any possible future salvation he can find in her.

"Breathe, Grace. It's okay. It's okay, Grace. I'm so sorry."  
  
And he is. An innocent woman who had the misfortune of coming across him and treating him like a human for once is dying in his arms and he can't stop it. He lets it run its course and soon her breathing turns ragged and eventually slows to a stuttering stop, her eyes lingering on his face, the light burning out, her hand growing limp in his own.

He tears off a long strip of his shirt, carefully tying it around her neck. He closes his eyes and concentrates as hard as he can, pressing his lips to hers and falls into the In-Between. He searches for her until he finally sees her, her back to him, long dark brown hair falling over her shoulder as he calls for her, hand reaching out for her to take.

It's her choice, he knows, if she wants to stay, but there's still time for her to come back.

And she does. She takes his hand and comes back to the living with him.

** _oOo_**

An imprint of her soul lingers inside with his, like a hand squeezing his heart ever since he's brought her back from the dead. He feels the pull of her nightmares, hears her scream echoing in his head.

He wishes he could forget about her but he can't. The youngest member of his gang, cousin to Grace’s friend, Miguel, tells him that Grace quit her job at the diner and lives in an apartment complex his gang occasionally frequently roams around. He orders them to stay away and most of them obey, even if they don't understand why.

_ Ain't nobody ever tell me no. _

And besides, he's got a job to do tonight.

The Inferno Club is dimly lit and the music blasts loud music and holds an alluring sexy beat that only seemed to accentuate the mysterious atmosphere in the room. It thrives with life, smoke filling the air, disco lights flashing around as the dancers slide up and down their poles. Several people practically dive out his way when they see him and he has to admit it's fucking hilarious somewhat.

He swears in Spanish underneath of the idiocy they portray and settles in his usual seat, watching as a woman makes her way toward him. Nobody wants to get on his bad side. They know his name and the stories of what he can do.

She appears in front of him, holding out a glass of water. He stares at her because she's  _ here _  out of all places. What are the chances of that? He hasn't seen her since the day she went to the hospital.

She's alive and he's glad for that, knowing he'd saved her life. Her hair lies in ringlets around her shoulders and he scans over the dress she's wearing, oh that dress showing off her curves in the right places--

“You dancing for me tonight, cariño?” he blurts out before he can stop it. He's careful not to touch her fingers when he takes the water from her, his gaze lingering on her scar for a moment longer than necessary, his smile fading, his dark brown eyes growing cold and hard.

_ That fucker did that to her. I'll find him and make him wish he'd never been born. Just like Ted. _

“Not tonight, Chato.” 

“Hmm,” he smirks. “Maybe some other time then?”

She tilts her head, pretending to think about it. “Maybe. Hey, um . . . I . . .”

He sees her trying to say something but he's not sure what. He waits patiently but then her eyes widen in fear, her hand darts to her neck and her tray clatters to the floor. She runs away and he stands up instinctively, ready to go after her but then he stops.

Every pair of eyes is on him, watching him, waiting to see what he does. They can't know the Devil can learn to love, too.

“¡¿Qué estás mirando?! Importe de su propio negocio de mierda!” he shouts.  _ What are you looking at?! Mind your own fucking business! _

She disappears from his view and he hopes she didn't leave because of him. The cold chill spreading throughout his body hasn't left him alone since he's entered this place and he knows what that means: a death.

He sees Grace looking pale, walking almost stoically to the manager’s office and they exchange words. Whatever it is, the manager doesn’t seem pleased with it. He heads outside for a smoke, where he soon hears the distant wails of an ambulance and watches as a body is loaded on a stretcher from the back door away from sight from the other clubgoers.

The girl follows soon after, watching as her own body is loaded onto the ambulance and is driven away. “I didn’t mean to. But I was just so stressed. Somebody put something in my drink and I just--” she explains as best as she can about the details of her death, “I think I had a seizure. I hit my head on the way down with the cement block that’s used to hold open the back door. I swear, I didn’t mean to. My mom has to know that.” 

“I’ll tell her,” he promises. He’ll have to or she won't leave. She smiles and gives her him her name.

“The girl found me,” she continues, “Tell her it isn’t her fault. She did the best she could.” She fades into a whirlwind of smoke and ash. The sudden silence is interrupted by the sound of thunder rumbling, lightning dancing across the black sky and rain pouring down from the heavens.

An anguished scream draws his attention. It sends chills down his spine and he looks around to see the source of it. It’s Grace.

He finds himself walking closer, letting the rain soak him as he watches her dance. It seems to relax her and he’s mesmerized by the way she sways to the beat of the music blaring past the walls of the Inferno. It’s clear she has experience dancing and he finds himself wanting more.

“Dance with me.” He offers her his hand after she claims she’s okay. She’s obviously not fine, he can see the newest added memory of the girl seared into her soul. 

She nods, hesitantly. unable to form words. He hates seeing her like this. Their souls are entwined; he can feel what she’s feeling at the moment and it physically pains him to watch her shut down. Grace takes his hand and he’s surprised of how small and soft it is compared to his own. He gently guides her hands, placing them around the back of his neck, bringing her as close to his body as possible.

_ I'm here alone, didn't wanna leave _

_ My heart won't move, it's incomplete _

_ Is there a way I could make you understand? _

He wraps his arms around her carefully, spinning them both around in slow circles. He takes his time until she smiles gratefully, getting comfortable and content again.

The moves.

_ But how _

_ Do you expect me, to live alone with just me? _

The music.

It brings up forgotten memories from his past. He hasn’t danced since then; that’s another lifetime, another world, another man.

_ Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air? _

He pushes her away from his body, turning her in a circle, ending with a dip and she laughs. He swears it’s the most contagious sound he’s heard so far in this lifetime. He doesn’t fight it any longer. He smiles, laughing with her, enjoying the fact that for the first time in a long time, he’s happy.

With her.

**_oOo_**

**NEXT UP:** Chapter Four - a look into Chato's past

**NOTES:**

The double update that I promised! This one's a little short because it was connected to the previous chapter and since that one was depressing as hell, I decided to make this one a bit happier. . .ish. As the story progresses, things are going to become more dark and mature and we'll get a glimpse into Thee Hillsiders lifestyle. I've been reading your comments and they make me smile every time! :)

Also, on another note, let's take a moment to remember the men and women who died on this day, 9/11 and the people who took the time to look for survivors. Never forget.

This is also cross-posted on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Also, I am not a native Spanish speaker, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know. (I used Google Translate!)

This chapter was beta-proofed by the amazing sirgnomethegiant on Tumblr! Go check her blog out. She was kind enough to give me more insight and ask questions I never would've originally thought of and helped make this a better experience to read. :)

Please, if you can, try to leave a review and comment your thoughts. Follow TheRisingAlleria and thegracesantana on Tumblr for more updates!

Thank you so much for reading!

\- Alleria


	4. domingo en fuego . . .

**Rating:** Mature

 ** Word Count:  ** 4,376

 **Chapter Warnings:** Verbal Abuse, Child Abuse, Murder, Blood, Gang Violence, Death

 **Pairing:**  Grace/Chato Santana  
  
**Summary:** _Grace Santana knew what she was getting into when she first laid eyes on the tattooed man they called El Diablo. Temptation’s hard to resist and after all, who can say they fell in love with and married the Devil?_  

 ** Promos:  ** [[Final Promo]](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149566550297/grace-santana-knew-what-she-was-getting-into-when&sa=D&ust=1475094039565000&usg=AFQjCNHT9VZeqX-5lGVnrLMfyxNg1xrDcw)  | [[Promo #3]](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149523874122/grace-finds-herself-smiling-back-at-the-tattooed&sa=D&ust=1475094039566000&usg=AFQjCNEhxf0BpE19L1tP92JW3EphS54Kbg)  |  [[Promo #2]](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149485188682/she-thinks-theyre-wrong-to-judge-someone-that&sa=D&ust=1475094039568000&usg=AFQjCNEIS1VRtwrM4oL4zxv6F50ii_jilQ)  |  [[Promo #1]](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://therisingalleria.tumblr.com/post/149429647857/she-first-sees-him-when-shes-working-full-time&sa=D&ust=1475094039568000&usg=AFQjCNF7e6BLahXsZqEBqeHtPyocRvZyUg)

  **read:** [ffnet](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z%3Dhttps%253A%252F%252Fwww.fanfiction.net%252Fs%252F12127170%252F1%252FCloser-to-the-Fire%26t%3DZjAxYmZmMjM4ZTI1Zjc4NWU1MGI3YWQ2NGFlZDE5NjViOTY3NzI4Nyx2azE1aGh4UA%253D%253D&sa=D&ust=1475094039570000&usg=AFQjCNG8KGPGBsGRkU-UGcARXJgWPnIVdw)  | [ao3](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252Farchiveofourown.org%252Fworks%252F7916578%252Fchapters%252F18089293%26t%3DMzQ5NzQ3MjU4YTJmYzU0NDIyZTMwMDA2NmI2NWViNTRhZmNmMzg0ZSx2azE1aGh4UA%253D%253D&sa=D&ust=1475094039571000&usg=AFQjCNEKWwjSirATE5PBNoX_h64matnFsw) | [wattpad](https://www.google.com/url?q=http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z%3Dhttps%253A%252F%252Fwww.wattpad.com%252F305384357-closer-to-the-fire-chapter-one%26t%3DYTc1YzliYjFiODA2ZTRmZjc3NDI0ZTIzODI4NTMxZjgxYjEyN2QxMSx2azE1aGh4UA%253D%253D&sa=D&ust=1475094039572000&usg=AFQjCNE1ZdFxi3wzpFFWPWNgNK9SNLs60Q)

↳  please try to leave a review/kudos/reblog! :)

** _oOo_**

** iv. **

**CHATO**  

_ Domingo en fuego. Domingo en fuego. _

_ Creo que he perdido mi halo. _

_ i t h i n k i l o s t m y h a l o. _

_ Mi halo. _

“Usted no tiene uno,” a voice whispers in his ear.  _ You don't have one.  _ He doesn't dare look, staring down at the Bible he holds in his hands, gripping it tight, ignoring the voice. Because, if he looks, then all he would see is-

“Chato?”

He looks up to see his  _ abuela _  looking down at him, a confused expression on her face, shouldering her purse with one hand. “You coming,  _ nieto _ ?” she asks.

“ _ Sí _  . . .” he hesitates, placing the Bible back in the holder. His fingers brushes over the golden cross on the cover as he straightens.  _ Forgive me.  _ His grandmother places a gentle hand on his shoulder as they walk out of the church and he tries not to flinch at the thought of going home. His shoulder aches with the bruises underneath and he grimaces, careful not to show his pained expression to his grandmother.

“Your father wants to see you,” she tells him after a moment of silence. Their eyes meet briefly as he turns to look at her, head raising from leaning against the window of her car.

_ “¿Tengo que? ”  Do I have to? _

She sighs, exhaling deeply. “You know what he's like when you don't obey him,” she says finally, switching to English. “It's just a few more days, Chato. I'm trying as hard as I can, believe me, but you have to understand, your father . . . He’ll try to stop it. These things take time, okay? Just a few more days.  ¿Me escuchas? Unos días más y que estarán fuera de la casa para siempre. Lo prometo. ¿Bueno? ”  _ You hear me? A few more days and you will be out of that house forever. I promise. Okay? _

“Bueno,” he whispers underneath his breath. He doesn't know whether to believe her or not. He wants to desperately, but he knows things can change over times and people don’t always stick to their promises.  _ Domingo en fuego, _  the voice in the back of his head whispers.  _ Shut the fuck up . _

He steels himself before he walks into the house, waiting for the brute force of his father’s hand, waiting to hear the vulgar language being spewed on him, waiting to feel the kick of his foot against his ribs. None of that comes. His father stands in the living room, dressed in a suit and tie, blood splattered all over him from the groaning man lying on the floor in front of him. A knife’s gripped tight in his hand and Chato watches as his father slices off another finger from the man’s hand cleanly. The man’s scream reverbs in his ears and he turns abruptly, heading toward his room, not wanting to witness the murder of the man, like all the others before him.

His father snaps his head toward his movement and Chato freezes, heart pounding in his chest.

“Where have you been, boy?” he asks in a deathly calm voice. His eyes are almost void of emotion, but anger clearly shows.

Chato swallows. “C-Church,” he stammered out. “With  _ Abuela_.”

The man scoffs. “‘Course you were. Come here.”

Chato doesn’t move.

_ “COME. HERE!”  _ Chato moves quickly, not wasting another moment, standing by his father’s side. His father slams a hand down his bruised shoulder. “It’s time for you to man the fuck up,  _ hijo _ . You’re of age. It’s time for you to learn,” his father growls out harshly while handing him the knife. “This man’s been stealing from me.”

“No! I never -- Please! I--”

“Shut the fuck up!” the man behind him roars. The bloody man quiets down, whimpering softly as he cradles his wounded hand. Chato looks down at the knife in his shaking hands, trembling, revealing a weakness his father surely wouldn’t like. An exasperated hiss escapes from his father’s lips and he switches the knife in Chato’s hands for a gun. “You look me in the eyes when I’m talking to you,  _ hijo _ .”

His body begins to tremble slightly as he raises his eyes to meet his father’s vacant ones, trying like hell to control the fear coursing through him. He doesn't want any part of this, no part of this at all but at the same time, he does. A  part of him is scared and not ready , but seeing his father exercise all his power, makes him crave it too, somewhat. So many conflicting emotions emerges in a matter of seconds.

“This is what we do,  _ hijo_,” his father continues in a calm voice. “We protect what’s ours by any means necessary. No. Matter. What. An eye for an eye, Chato. Justice is always made on the fucking street.”

Chato doesn't speak. He’s had this plan forming in the back of his head for a while without the help of his Abuela. All the others, the Dead whispering for vengeance howl with glee when he spins around, landing as solid as a  punch his thirteen-year-old self can muster with the help of the gun in his hand, catching his father off guard as he staggers back a bit. He raises the gun with a steady hand, causing his father’s eyes to widen, pointing it directly to his chest as his father straightens, turning forward to his son, anger flaring again in his eyes.

“What are you doing, boy?" 

“What I should’ve done a long time ago,” Chato responds.  “ _Padre_ ,”  he mocks angrily before he can stop himself.

His father laughs incredulously, spitting out blood, wiping it away with his hand. He glances down at it, looking a little bit surprised to see that there is blood coming from him. As if he's never seen himself bleed before. He turns his head to his bodyguards standing on the other side of the room. “You? A no good son of mine who has no backbone? I'd like to see you try. Grab him!”

The two bodyguards don’t move.

“I  _ said_, GRAB HIM!”

“They answer to me now,” Chato tells him when they still don’t budge.  He turns to him, addressing them, letting them have a choice. “You can either stay where you are or get the fuck out.”

The two bodyguards exchange glances, a silent communication between them, but then eventually decide to stay where they are, making no move to help their former boss, turning their backs on him. They'd seen what the kid could do. He spilt their deepest darkest secrets, even brought back the long lost buried memories they thought they could forget and summoned  _ fire _ , for God’s sake. Chato knew they hated working for his father. He'd promised them a change of lifestyle; they could still keep their jobs and still provide for their families if they worked for him, Chato Santana, instead.

“Why?” His father growls, shifting on the balls on his feet, getting ready to pounce. Chato doesn't understand why he just doesn't do it already as he raises the gun higher, surprising himself even more about how almost calm he is.

“You've ruined people's lives,” Chato begins. “You killed people.  Innocent  people who didn't ask for this and you killed them and now they won't leave me alone -- all because you! You killed Mom when she tried to leave you and now you're trying to make me like you and -- and I will  _ never be_ like  _ you _ .”

His father scoffs. “Hijo \--”

“Cut the bullshit!” Chato screams. “And listen to me! YOU RUINED MY LIFE! YOU RUINED EVERYONE’S LIVES AND NOW YOU’RE GOING TO PAY!”

His father laughs again in amusement. He steps forward. “That's really cute, boy. You think you can stop me? I'd like to see you try. Now . . . Give me the gun and we can pretend this never happened and maybe tonight, I won't beat your ass.”

“No.” Chato says, struggling to keep his voice firm, standing his ground. “I'm not gonna let you do this.”

His heart pumps in his chest, seemingly becoming louder and louder with each second and his hand trembles slightly. His father, seeing this, lunges at him, knocking them both to the ground. Gunshots ring out as they wrestle for control of the gun.

Chato groans in pain as his father punches him in the face and in response, he presses his hand against his father’s face, burning him with his fire. His father lets go, screaming in agony as he staggers up, twisting and turning, clutching his face in pain.

Chato lets his father writhe on the floor in pain, cursing a string of profanity in Spanish. He kneels down next to him as his father whimpers.

Chato holds up his hand in reply, fire illuminating from his palm. Chato can tell his father genuinely has no idea what is happening and that's fine with him. He doesn't care. For the first time in his life, he can see his father's afraid and is in pain. Whether that's because Chato revealed his powers or because he's actually standing up for once, he doesn't know.

“The police are going to be here any moment,” he tells him. “And then you'll have to answer for your sins.”

Chato starts to stand but his father, in one last feeble attempt to regain his pride, authority and leadership, grabs him. He starts to rise again, but Chato punches him as hard as he can, a grin creeping on his lips before he can stop it. Oh, how it feels good to hit him, fighting back all those times he couldn’t, all those times when he couldn’t stop the innocent from dying, all those times his father proclaimed he was the king of the household. Oh, how that's changing.

“You’ll burn in Hell for this, boy!” his father chokes out angrily.

“Well then, save me a fucking seat,” he says without emotion. “’Cause I’m the motherfucking king.” His father gives one last defiant shout as he rises from the floor and Chato doesn't think twice about it, pulling the trigger as his instinct takes over.

There's a loud  _ bang_, then one last whimper and all is silent. No one speaks, save for the man clutching his bloody hand to his chest behind him.

He doesn't dare to even breathe, trying like hell to hold it together. He watches as his father’s spirit rises from his body, confusing sweeping over his corporeal form before he snaps his head toward Chato. He won't be able to touch him, Chato knows. Not again.

Never again.

He drops to his knees, slouching over, the gun still in his hand. The realization of what he just has just done pours over his body. He has just  _ killed _for the first time and it wasn't just  _ anybody _ , but his own father. Bile crawls up his threat and then he finds himself vomiting, twisting away from his father’s blank empty stare. He pushes the gun away from him as he gags, wishing for something to come up but nothing will.

A part of him is glad he's done it, but a part of him is shocked that he'd actually did it and went through with it. It was supposed to be a last minute resort if it ever came down to it and . . .

He has taken a life away, something he's told himself that he wouldn't do. But he  has  done it. But it's been the right thing to do . . . isn't it?

** _oOo_ **

The tattoos begin to appear as he grows older, little by little, each adding onto his blank slate of skin. He isn’t sure what they're there for but yet they give him a sense of protection. From what, he doesn't know.

He hears the murmuring voice of his Abuela as she nears his holding cell, appearing in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest. “ _ Nieto _ ,” she sighs, shaking her head. “What have you gotten yourself into? Come on. We’re going home.”

He never tells her the truth of how his father died and she doesn't ask for the details. After his father’s death, she takes him in like she's promised, with her being the only other relative he has alive. His mother had been murdered at the hands of his father and he had no other aunts or uncles or cousins that he knew of.

_ How’d you get your powers, Chato?  _ Abuela asked him. She'd accidentally walked into his room one day, seeing him practice using his newfound pyrokinesis abilities.

 _I died._  
  
His father had sent some goons after him after he failed to meet his curfew. They grabbed him from his room one night and left him for dead in his living room after shooting him in the stomach. He remembers the feeling of the blade piercing his stomach by his father’s hand when he wouldn't die, that feeling of drifting into emptiness, that look in his father’s eyes as he took another drink of the alcohol in his hand as he walked away.  
  
He remembers seeing stars before an old man came up to him and told him who he was. He told him it would be passed to him, this curse. A curse that Chato wanted no part of.  
  
But the curse saved his life and he wasn’t sure whether to be grateful for it. He still suffered at the hands of his father’s, still suffered from the abuse no one knew the half truth of.  
  
His father realized he’d fucked up somewhere along the way, letting his son bleed to death on the floor of his home so he took him to a private surgeon who stitched him right back up.  
  
The Dead dragged him out of his nightmares, crying out to be avenged, to have mercy from the chaos his father created. He’d tried to ignore them as best as he could but soon realized they wouldn’t leave unless he helped.  
  
A voice whispered in the back of his head in a language he never could identify, throwing him into the waking fires of Hell, of dreams and memories that weren’t his, into sins that weren’t his; until he manifested them into flames that seem to conjure from his very soul.  
  
It scared him when it first happened, as his hands grew hot and smoke trailed from his fingers. He learns with difficulty and some time over the next few weeks to control it.  
  
He can read his father quite literally as an open book one afternoon, see the horrors the man inflicted, see the cries and wails of the mourning dead who can’t leave surround him, see the tiny happiest moments of his life lingering just barely in the deepest part of his soul.  
  
He doesn’t understand why he’s been given this power. Why him? What did Chato Santana do to deserve this power?  
  
“It’s God’s gift to you,” an elderly woman tells him as she tries to comfort him before her spirit ascends. “He sent you here to be our salvation. Our vengeance.”

Protecting what’s his without showing any weakness quickly becomes second nature. He never backs down. If he sees something he likes, he takes it. It only takes one wrong move in this life to end up with a bullet in a person’s head.  


He uses the knowledge from his father to rise up from the Los Reyes gang and take control, colliding it with Thee Hillsiders. Whenever he gets more recruits, the stronger his power gets. An adrenaline rush surges through him and he wants more. More recruits, more power. It's a high addiction that can never be fully satisfied. When he walks into a room, everyone turns and shuts their mouths, waiting for him to sit and speak. He always sits at the head of the table and no one dares to challenge him for it.

When he speaks, everyone listens.  


When he moves, everyone parts, no questions asked.

He’s God in a world that’s nothing but Hell.

He’s El Diablo.

He learns that his enemies can’t hurt him if they don’t know what he’s feeling. What he’s thinking of. No one dares to disobey him. They've seen what he can do when they don't listen.

_ It’s the code of life,  _ he reminds himself.

A very thin fucking line between being dead or alive.  


** _oOo_ **

_ Madre es el nombre de Dios en los labios y los corazones de todos los niños. _

“It’s for protection,” his mother once told him. She'd given him a golden bracelet for his tenth birthday, promising that they'd leave when she got the chance. Of course, she never did get the chance.

“I had the bracelet blessed for you.  _ Para tu protección_,” she stated with a sad smile.  _ For your protection.  _ “And to have something you can remember me by,  hijo. For when you’re alone and need hope.”

She always wore a sterling silver cross around her neck, always caressing it while she prayed. In all his years that he had with her, he'd never seen her take it off.  


She called it her protection.

But it wouldn't protect her any longer. He would never know where she was buried, where his father had put her under six feet, would never know what the “could-haves” could've been if she'd survived. Her spirit never came to him as much as he desperately wanted. She either ascended to Heaven or was still lost somewhere in a place he didn't know, forever doomed to wander with the Dead away from his sight.

She made the sign of the cross on his face and body like she always did.  


_ “Que Dios te bendiga y te acompañe_ _,”_ she whispered, embracing him as tight as she could.

_ May God bless you and always keep you from harm. _

** _oOo_ **

“I don’t want to lose you, Chato. You’re all I have,” Abuela murmurs, her voice breaking. “Just . . . Come home. Stop this. You told me you would stop.”

“I will,” he lies. He knows that he's too far into this to back out now. All Abuela knows that he's in a gang and not said  _ leader  _ of gang. He stands, turning to leave.  


“You’re my  _ nieto_, for now.”  


He stops dead in my tracks, feeling her intense gaze on his back. He turns back to face her, their eyes meeting. “What do you mean by that?” he demands.

“Even the Devil was an angel once, Chato. It’s only a matter of time until you lose yourself to Diablo himself, too.”

“I won't.”

“Your power . . . It's becoming addictive. You can't see what's it's doing to you.”

“It's helping us,” Chato growls, trying to make her understand. “Don't you see? _I'm_ helping  us !”

“I won't try to pretend like I know what's going on because I don't, but look at you!” she yells back, blocking his way to the front door. “They're changing you and you can't see that! You're becoming more like  _ him _ everyday, going out at night when you think I can't hear you and getting these--these tattoos! I get worried when you don't come home and I pray that I don't get a phone call in the middle of the night telling that you've been murdered and I--”

He's silent as she trails off and shakes his head in denial. “I'm not my father and I never will be. I  _ know _what I'm doing,” he hisses out angrily. “And besides, how do you shoot  El Diablo  in the back?”

“When he's not looking,” is her blunt reply. She steps closer, gently placing her hands on his face, forcing him to look at her. “One day, Chato . . . You're going to find something that you love with all your heart and one day, when you're not looking, it'll be ripped away from you. And when that day comes, I'll be there to tell you  _ ‘I told you so.’ _ ”

Abuela drops her hands, making the sign of the cross on his face and slowly retreats to her bedroom, disappointment clearly etched in her aging features.

Chato watches her door close, his anger lingering inside. A part of him knows that she's right and a part of him tells him he should keep doing what he's doing. Smoke rises from his fingers and he opens his palm to a ball of flame. It crackles softly and sparks emerge before he quickly extinguishes it.

_ One more. This will be the last one. _

But the last day never comes and El Diablo roams the streets at nights again much to Abuela’s dismay, who dies shortly afterwards of a heart attack on his eighteenth birthday, spending his remainder of his sentence in jail and a scorched cell to answer in reply for his grief.

** _oOo_ **

“Chato, we’re going to release you a couple of days early. There's no good way to say this, so I'll put it plain: your grandmother, she died in the early hours of this morning.”

Chato nods once more, saying nothing at all.

A guard walks him back to his cell. Chato recognizes him as one of of his gang member’s father. The guard unlocks the cell door and lets Chato in. Then he says, "It's like one of them good news, bad news jokes, isn't it?”

Chato says nothing at all, keeping quiet to himself, eyes wandering over his new cell.  


Numbly, he packs up his possessions, the ones he had with him when they arrested him for selling handguns. His jacket, some money, his mother’s bracelet.

He doesn't need to shave. He dresses in his clothes, walking through door after door, knowing that he will walk back through them again some day, some time, feeling empty inside.

Ghost images fill his head, unbidden. In his imagination, he's leaving another prison, long ago.

He takes out his change and goes to the nearest payphones. Calls Jorge, his right-hand man, but the machine picks up.  
  
"Hey, Jorge," says Chato. "They let me out early. I'm coming home."  
  
Then, because people do make mistakes, he’s seen it happen, he calls home and listens to Abuela’s voice.  
  
"Hi," she speaks cheerfully. "I can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message at the beep and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a good day."  
  
Chato can't bring himself to leave a message but the words burst through his lips before he can stop it, the beep signaling it's ready for a new message in his ear. “I'm sorry.”

Chato cleans himself up as best as he comes. He still looks rough.  
  
He wonders what Abuela would say when she sees him again, and then he remembers that Abuela wouldn't say anything ever again and he sees his face in the mirror, tremble but only for a moment before he steels himself. He shows up for the funeral, dressed in the suit she given him for his sixteenth birthday. It still fits him even though he's grown quite a bit.

Nothing has changed in the past year since he's been gone. He walks in. The dimly lit corridor smells of flowers and of furniture polish, with just the slightest tang of formaldehyde. At the far end, is the Chapel of Rest.  


His Abuela’s name is on a sheet of paper beside the door at the far end of the corridor. Chato knows most of the people in the room: Abuela’s workmates, several of her friends.  
  
They all recognize him, heads turning when he walks in, heading toward the casket at the end of the room. He can see it in their faces. There are no smiles, though, no hellos, no one to offer him their condolences.

  
He writes **_CHATO_**  and the date in his precise handwriting in the Condolences and Remembrance book next to him, putting off walking toward the end of the room where the people are and the casket and the thing in the casket that's no longer his Abuela, just an empty shell.  
  
The Dead wander around the church, wailing for forgiveness and salvation and he dares not make eye contact with any of them today. A few though, pay their respects to his Abuela. Abuela lays with her eyes closed, her arms folded across her chest, wearing a dress he doesn't recognize. He carefully sets down a flower next to her.

Abuela’s coffin is interred in the small nondenominational cemetery: un-fenced, a hilly woodland meadow that's filled with black granite and white marble headstones. The short service ends and the casket’s lowered into the ground and the people go away, leaving Chato alone with his thoughts.

He stands there with his hands in his pockets, staring at the hole in the ground. The world slowly begins to lose light and color. He walks over to the grave, not sure what to speak because all he sees is the disappointment on her face and her last words echoing in his ears.

Several shovels of earth have already been emptied onto the casket, but the hole’s far from full. He brushes the earth from his hands and whispers, "Good night, Abuela." Then: "I'm sorry."

_ Thank you for everything. _

He turns his face toward the lights of his neighborhood and hears Jorge approaching him from behind. The two say nothing until Jorge breaks it.

“Sorry ‘bout your Abuela, man.”

Chato says nothing.

He heads toward Jorge’s car and pauses momentarily at his father’s grave, now next to his mother’s, seeing his name bring back memories he's tried hard to forget. Fire ignites from his fingers and soon the grave’s charred and burnt beyond recognition. He turns to see Jorge staring at him, but he wisely says nothing to provoke him any further. Jorge knows what Chato's like when he's mad and now the world's going to bear the heat of his wrath for the next few weeks 

 “Come on,” Chato snarls in a cold, almost emotionless voice. “We got business to do.”

** _oOo_ **   


** RE-EDITED: 11/17/16 **

** NEXT UP:  ** Chapter Five - Chato and Grace have some fun and someone makes a cameo appearance. Who do you think it'll be?

 **NOTES:**  
  
This chapter was definitely a tough one to write because some parts hit close to home but I'm a little pleased of how it turned out. I'm still not satisfied with a part in this chapter but maybe I'll go back and make it more emotional. Anyways, next chapter will be more lighter and a bit happier! :) I apologize for the long wait but I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Also, has anyone noticed what year this takes place in and catch a movie reference in this? ;)  I've very curious to see if anybody caught it. Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos! I'm glad you all are liking this story so far!

I am not a native Spanish speaker, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know. (I used Google Translate!)  
  
This chapter was beta-proofed by the amazing sirgnomethegiant on Tumblr! Go check her blog out. :)

Please, if you can, try to leave a review and comment your thoughts. Follow TheRisingAlleria and thegracesantana on Tumblr for more updates!  
  
Thank you so much for reading!  
  
\- Alleria


	5. this girl has always been half goddess and half hell

**Rating:** Teen

 **Word Count:** 5,916 

 **Chapter Warnings:** Referenced Rape 

 ** Pairing: **  Grace/Chato Santana  
  
** Summary: ** _ Grace Santana knew what she was getting into when she first laid eyes on the tattooed man they called El Diablo. Temptation’s hard to resist and after all, who can say they fell in love with and married the Devil? _

**___**

** v. **

**GRACE**

_ “What did you do?” _

_ They call out her in name in various tones and pitches but she's frozen in fear, in disbelief at what she's just done. Oh God, OH GOD-- _

_ A hand yanks at her arm, pulling her along and she stumbles along blindly, not seeing, not seeing anything at all but the sound of her hard breathing echoes in her head as the screaming around her continues. _

_ “Grace. Grace!” They call over and over. But she doesn't see or hear them, she's trapped in her own mind, screaming to get out--  _ This is not me,  _ she chants, the words dancing on her lips.  _ This is not me. I didn't do this.

_ But she did do it, burdening the weight on it on her shoulders. _

_ “What happened?” _

_ “What did you do?!” _

_ “GRACE!” _

_ Hands all around her, all around her grabbing her body and she's numb and sits there on the ground, eyes blank and lifeless as someone tries to rouse an answer out of her and the screaming continues without an end in sight. _

_ “Get up! What did you do?!” _

_ “Look at me!” _

_ “Answer me!” _

_ “Grace,” a voice whispers. She turns her head at the familiarity of it, hand reaching out as she's helped to her feet. _

_ Tears erupt and she's watching the devastation and chaos unfold before her. Wails of mourning echo throughout the air as the flames rise higher and higher, consuming everything in its path-- _

_ She turns to avoid the scene, to push it all behind her, to forget and then she's in another place, another time that holds no meaning to her. _

_ She feels his hand brush gently across her cheek and suddenly Chato's there, in front of her, hands curling in her hair, bringing her closer to his body and oh, OH-- _

_ His lips brush against hers and she melts  into his touch, his fire, inhaling his smoke, feeling his smooth skin underneath her as she tugs off the tank top he always wears . She traces his tattoos with the tips of her fingers, relishing in the beauty the ink holds as he plants a trail of kisses down her throat, kissing her scar and she lets out a moan before she can stop herself. _

_ She breathes out his name. His touch becomes rougher and harsher and soon it's uncomfortable and then she's begging him to stop and she's screaming, kicking and pushing him away because it reminds her of  him.  _ No, God, please not him, _ she thinks._

_ But then he's there, replacing Chato and his hands tighten around her arms, pinning her up against a wall that appears, transporting her into her darkest memory. _

_ “No!” She twists and turns, kneeing him in the groin, running into the hallway, her clothes from that night disheveled and torn, feeling the raw patch of hair he'd torn out from her scalp throb with pain, hear him behind her as she frantically tries to shut the door between them. He slams it open with a loud bang even though she's locked it, high on alcohol and Gods knows what else pumping through his veins, adrenaline fueling him along with anger, lust and determination as he storms toward her. _

_ “No.” She's trying to escape and he wraps his arms around her from behind. She's writhing, twisting to get his hands off of her and then her eyes land on the pepper spray near her bed on the windowsill. She jabs him as hard as she can with her elbow, diving onto her bed in a mad scramble to get the small pink canister but he grabs her foot, dragging her back toward him. She kicks her leg wildly, screaming for help at the top of her lungs, but he backhands her, hands fumbling to remove her jeans from her body. “Get off of me! Get off!” _

_ No. She won’t allow him to do this to her. Get off. Get off! GET OFF! GET-- _

_ “ Chica , _ wake up.”

_ He's on top of her now, pressing slobbering drunk kisses as she squirms and wiggles violently, his hand covering her mouth, muffling her screams. His knees pin her hands down, using his lower body weight to hold her down. More tears leak out as she tries her hardest to get him off but he doesn't listen, doesn't listen . . . _

“Grace.”

_ She blinks. It’s not  him  on top of her but Nicola and she’s so confused because why would her best friend be here? Unless she’s a part of it. Unless-- _

_ Nicola smiles coyly, gently caressing her face which Grace is now extremely weirded out by this change of events but then her best friend’s features turn sinister and she gives a wicked smirk as her hands tighten around her neck-- _

“Grace, wake up!”

She’s shaken awake suddenly by Nicola, who appears in her room, looking concerned. The curtains are pushed wide open and morning sunlight streams in. She’s still groggy, heart pumping in her chest from her nightmare as she sits up slowly, taking it all in. Nicola’s sitting by her side on her blankets, thick brows creased for a moment but doesn’t pressure Grace, her eyes darting to Grace eyeing her prescription pill bottle like her life depends on it. The brunette hands Grace a filled glass and one pill and watches as she gulps it down.

“Do I wanna ask?”

Grace shakes her head, embarrassed for the most part that she just had an  almost sex dream about Chato - _freaking_ - Santana, but mostly to push away what happened that night. It’s not like she doesn’t want to talk about it and she  does , but today is not that day. Maybe . . . one day. Maybe one day she can allow herself to accept the fact that isn’t her fault. But why then, does it still feel like it does?

She plasters on a quick (but genuine) smile for Nicola’s benefit. “Happy Birthday!” she exclaims. “You didn’t think I’d forget, right?”

Nicola cocks her head playfully, sticking out her tongue. “Are you still coming to my party?”

“Nee, I’m your best friend so I  _ have _ to attend,” Grace reminds her with a soft smile.

Nicola chuckles. “Right. But I’m inviting a few . . . friends so, dress up nice, okay?”

“You mean,  _ guy _friends? Are you trying to set me up?”

“What? No!” Nicola shrugs it off, making an  inconvincible  poker face, not bothering to hide it. She stands, heading to Grace’s closet and begins to rummage through it. She holds up a dress. “How about this one?”

“Uh, no. Look, I don’t need you to set me up on a date because I don't need anybody right now.”

It's a total lie and Nicola knows it.

“Really?” Nicola turns her head and gives her this look that dares Grace to challenge her. “Okay, then when's the last time you went out?”

Grace  does  remember the last time she went out of a date and it's something she never wants to relive.  _ Look how well that's turned out. _

But it's been a long time since then. Maybe that has to change.

** _oOo_ **

It seems that Chato’s making another appearance today, earlier than she thinks.

They haven't talked much since their dance in the rain, only establishing a nightly routine around each other at the Inferno. She’s the only one that dares to come close to him and give him something that he likes. She notices that the men that were once infatuated with her avoid her at any cost, keeping their hands to themselves or turn their attention to another one of her co-workers. She suspects that Chato has something to do with it and she’s secretly glad. Grace still needs to thank him for saving her life and she doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to do. _It’s two simple words,_ she tells herself.  _ Just do it. It's not that hard. _

Tonight's her night off. She walks through the Inferno, heading toward Chato's usual spot and some hesitation, sits down next to him. He seems deep in thought when she arrives, staring off into the distance before he tears his eyes away from the dancer in front of him and smiles at her.

“Grace,” he says. He smiles, shifting his body toward her. “What brings you here tonight?”

“You . . . doing anything tonight?” She flashbacks to her sex dream (-- was it really a sex dream, though?--) and tries not to show her embarrassment, trying her best to forget about it, trying to conceal the bumbling emotion rising into her cheeks. He doesn't seem to notice because his eyes narrow suspiciously at the other customers staring at him and his body language tenses slightly before he turns his attention back on her.

“Nah, not really,” he says. “Why?”

“Well, it's my friend’s birthday party and I don't know whether you're doing anything but I thought you know, maybe you could go -- I mean, uh, you know for the uh, party, I mean--”

“I'll go.”

“You’ll --Wait, what?” Surely,  she'd  misheard him.

“I'll go,” he smiles.  “To the party. That's what you want, huh?”

His lips twitch as he seems to be holding back a laugh and Grace knows she's made a fool of herself in front of him, blubbering on and on about whatever nonsense sprouted out of her mouth.  _ Oh, God why? _

_ Is that what I want? _

“I'd like that,” she tells him sincerely after letting his words soak in.

He nods and stands and in return, sitting in his vacant spot are the Dead who haunt her dreams. The ones who plague her nightmares, the ones who call out for her, begging for answers, about why, why did she do it?

Truth is, she doesn't have an answer. But she knows she'll have to answer to them sooner or later. She can't run forever.

_ You can't hide from us forever. _

Their dull, lifeless eyes bear past hers, seeing nothing at all, but seeing her at the same time. They know exactly who she really is.

_ Murderer. _

_ Killer. _

She swallows, unable to look away but does so when Chato calls her name, understandably looking slightly confused.

“You coming?”

“Yeah. I--” she hesitates. She turns her head back but the Dead have vanished. Besides, have they already been there at all? But she feels their skeletal fingers curling through her bones, tighten around her neck, threatening to suffocate her as they did. She stands quickly, facing Chato.

“Yeah, I'm coming. Let's go.”

** _oOo_ **

Chato cleans up nicely, she notices, as he switches out his Hillside jacket for a more simpler black leather jacket from the back of his ‘64 Impala and walks with her to Nicola’s apartment.

She's changed her outfit for a simple dress and he stares at her for a moment when she approaches him and tells her she looks beautiful. They make small talk and along the way, she explains to him who Nicola is and her daughter, Justine while he listens and nods. He doesn't say much but she can tell (somehow, that) he's actually listening to her and not bullshitting his way around. The music from Nicola’s apartment can be heard when they enter through the front door but no one complains because Nicola always throws the best parties.

_ Just wait and see, wait and see . . . _

Nicola squeals with glee when she sees Grace all dolled up and embraces her as a man trails beside her, looking slightly nervous and looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

_ Find another . . . _

Nicola freezes slightly when she sees Chato standing next to Grace but quickly fakes a smile toward him and gives Grace a  c ontemptuous look and Grace knows she's in trouble.

_ Girl, you've gotta know _

“This is Robbie. He's an old friend of mine, just passing through here tonight,” Nicola replies, introducing the Latino man next to her.

_. . . like he did mine. _

Robbie wears a leather jacket similar to Chato's but the resemblance stops there. He's a bit younger and sports dark brown eyes with heavy circles underneath and stubble above his upper lip. He nods politely to Grace, acknowledging her presence but then his eyes harden when he sees Chato and in return, Grace sees him do the same.

“I didn't know this was a devil town,” Robbie speaks for the first time, his voice harsh. His stare is unnerving to say the least, never taking his eyes off of Chato, seemingly angry at the fact that he's there, like it's an insult to him.

“Me either,” Chato growls. They surmise one another up and Grace and Nicola exchange quick confused glances.

_ What the hell is going on?  _ Nicola mouths quickly and Grace shrugs in response, unsure what's happening at the moment.

Grace glances down and sees Chato's fingers curling into a fist and without thinking, slips her fingers into his, in an attempt to calm him down. He turns his head in surprise to look at her before he hesitantly curls his hand around her own. Nicola gives Robbie a “WTF?” look before she nestles her arm into the crook of his elbow, leading him away from Chato and Grace, taking Grace’s wrapped present in her hand, rambling on about how Justine made her cake and how's she's so proud of her.

“What was that?” she asks in a curious voice, turning to face him.

He lets go of her hand and shakes his head. “It was nothing.”

“Do you know him?”

“. . . No,” he replies. It comes out uncertain and she sees his eyes flick to Robbie across the room and Robbie, as if sensing this, gives him another stare over Nicola’s shoulder.

“Okay, then,” she mutters underneath her breath. She's not so sure what the hell’s happening right now but as long as those two didn't ruin Nicola’s birthday party and Robbie provoking Chato enough to burn the place down . . .

She tries not to think about that and looks around to see Justine looking bored at the dining table, making sure no one’s attempting to steal her mom’s presents. She brightens when she sees Grace, rising from her chair to hug her.

“Hey, Grace!” Justine takes after Nicola, though her hair is cut short to her shoulders. The thirteen year old wears a rock band shirt Grace doesn't recognize and grey sweatpants. Grace notices that Justine is signing with her hands while she talks, something that she's never done before.

“Since when do you sign?”

“Two weeks ago,” Justine replies with a wink. “There's a boy in my class who's deaf and he never signs to anybody so I thought, you know why not? Don't tell Mom.”

“How . . . How does she not know?”

“It's simple: I just don't do it around her.” Justine laughs and turns her head to Chato hanging behind Grace. “I like your tattoos. They're pretty cool.”

Chato smiles half-heartedly and murmurs a quiet “Thanks.”

“Oh, Justine, this is Chato. He's my -- uh, he's a . . .” Grace turns to him, unsure what to call him. Are they friends or just acquaintances? Something more? Chato seems to understand why she's looking at him and confirms, “I'm her friend.”

“Cool. Mom says you're the Devil.”

“Justine!” Grace admonishes, shooting Justine a shocked look. Justine shrugs innocently and mouths a  “What?”

Chato smirks. “That's what they call me.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation and Justine smiles happily at this for some reason. Then the young girl turns back to Grace like nothing happened. “What'd you get Mom?”

“What'd you think?” Grace replies with a knowing look.

An awkward silence ensues between them and thankfully, Nicola appears as if on cue. “You mind if I borrow Grace? No? Okay? We’ll be over here.”

Nicola doesn't wait for Chato's response and drags Justine and Grace over to the crowded living room. Several people have already taken it upon themselves to change it into a dance floor. Grace moves her body, letting herself get into the groove and turns her head to find Nicola looking somewhat angry as she sways next to her.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Grace is taken aback and stops swaying. “What?”

“You brought him here. Him,  _ El Diablo _  out of all people, Grace, into my house. What the hell were you thinking?!”

“I--”

“I want him out here,” Nicola cuts in sharply. “I don't care what you have to do. Just get him out. I don't want him near Justine again. You hear me?”

“Nee--”

Nicola raises her hand to stop her, shaking her head. “No, you don't get to  _ “Nee”  _ me, Grace. You were supposed to thank him and from what I can see, you haven't done that. Otherwise, you wouldn't have brought him here.”

Grace doesn't say anything, exchanging a look with Justine, because she knows deep down that Nicola’s right. There has to be a reason that she's been putting this off. She glances toward Chato, who's walking toward Robbie. She sees them both looking angry and then next thing she knows, Robbie shoves Chato back and then she's running, pushing through the people in front of her, determined to get to him before he makes a scene, or worse, burns their apartment complex down.

“Don't touch me!” Chato shouts.

She puts herself between them, knowing the risk of putting herself in harm’s way. But she trusts that for some stupid reason, Chato won't hurt her. He won't, right? Because he's saved her life and came with her to this party and that means he  must  like her somewhat.  _ That doesn't mean he still won't kill you, you idiot! _

“Hey, hey! Calm down!” she says, turning to him. “Chato, calm down.” She places her hands on Chato's face, trying to soothe him. The fire in his eyes slowly dies down while he stares at her but the anger still lingers as Robbie starts toward him again but Grace shoves him back as hard as she can. “What the fuck is your problem, Robbie?”

“He started it!” Robbie snarls, his voice becoming deeper. The two are becoming more irritated by the second and she can't understand what the fuck is going on but she knows she needs to get them away from each other and she doesn't know why but she trusts her gut. And besides, Nicola  _did_  tell her to make him leave.

“We're leaving, okay?” Grace snaps. She turns her head, making sure Chato's listening. He looks like he wants to protest but she stops him with a stern look. “Chato? We're leaving.  _Now._ And you, back the fuck up.”

She pushes Robbie away once more as she tugs on Chato's arm, dragging him out of Nicola’s apartment and he lets her, hesitantly following her out.

Chato's mumbling underneath his breath angrily, slamming the door open and he paces back and forth, seemingly ready to want to go back inside and give Robbie a piece of his mind. Grace can't let him do that, so she stands in front of the door until he eventually calms down. Then without warning, he punches the brick wall next to him with an angry shout of pain. He cradles his hand to his chest as Grace tries to assess the damage but he waves it off, claiming that it doesn't hurt, even though it's obvious that it does.  
  
She doesn't believe him but sure enough, even though his knuckles are bruised and bloody, he flexes his hand as if to prove his point. They sit in silence on the concrete steps for a while until Chato suggests grabbing a bite to eat. She agrees because she has nothing better to do and besides, she promised Nicola. She needs to thank him. And then, maybe she can finally move on with her life.  
  
_Do you really? Do you want to? Or do you want him to stay?_  
  
_Shut up._

** _oOo_   
**

He takes her to a place called Johnny Rockets. She's never heard of it before in her life but he seems adamant on going there. The waiter there leads them to a booth when Chato whispers something in his ear and slips him money between his fingers and she's struck of how much it reminds her of the diner they met in and wonders why he didn't bother to take them there instead since it's much closer.  
  
There's a tiny jukebox on their table and Chato hands her a quarter when she flips through the variety of songs, seeing her brighten in recognition of the one song she knows on the playlist and hasn't heard in a long time.  
  
"Hey, listen," Chato begins slowly, rummaging his hands together, covering his bruised knuckles, "Um, about earlier . . . At your friend's party. I'm . . . sorry about that. I don't know what came over me. Us."  
  
Her finger hovers over the play button as she looks at him, studying him. She's not sure what to say so she thinks it through before she speaks, nodding in understanding. "It's okay. Parties aren't my thing anyway. Hey, um, why -- why didn't we just go to Arbelle's? It's much closer than here."  
  
"I thought about that but then I didn't want to traumatize you any further."  
  
_ Duh.  _ "Right," she mutters. The thought didn't even occur to her in the first place and she fights the urge to subconsciously touch her scar. She's touched that Chato considered that thought and smiles at him. "Um, thanks. It-- it means a lot. Really."  
  
They exchange smiles and sit quietly when she finally presses play, listening to the beginning intro kick in through the speakers. She hums along, knowing she's totally off-key but is surprised when Chato starts singing along, keeping his voice purposely low as he carries the tune.  
  
"I didn't know you could sing."  
  
The tally marks on his nonexistent eyebrow raise playfully. "You do now. Don't tell anybody. It'll ruin my reputation."  
  
The last part is dripped with sarcasm and dropped as a stage whisper but a part of her wonders if he actually means it. The waiter returns, requesting their order. She orders a chocolate milkshake and a cheeseburger and some fries on the side and he orders the same. He seems to thinking about something and then he finally blurts out what's on his mind.  
  
"My mom met my dad here," he says, seemingly lost in the memory. His eyes drift in and out of focus as he stares down at the table. "Yeah, they uh, sat in this booth and just . . . talked. And danced. Sometimes I wonder what things would've been like if . . ."  
  
He trails off and she notices his fingers tracing over letters carved into the table that she doesn't remember seeing before. Just two letters in particular: _HC_. Something seems to snap in Chato's mind because his eyes harden and his jaw clenches before it releases and the table begins to smolder underneath his fingertip as he burns out the other pair of initials and he turns his attention back to her when he's finished. “Yeah, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Yeah, I--  Let's just talk about something else."  
  
"Is this a date?" she asks before she can stop herself.  She can practically hear the _“_ _ please” _  in his last sentence and the way he looks now, so hopeful, looking at her like she's  her  and she's glad for that.

He meets her eyes, a small smile on his lips. "Only if you want it to be.”

She nods tentatively. “Okay,” she whispers. She tries again, louder this time, certain of herself. Chato's not  Him . “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“Okay.”

They crack after seeing each other try to suppress it, bursting into laughter and Grace thinks his smile is beautiful. There's something about it she just likes, the way it looks so pure and the way his eyes crinkle at the edges. She wonders if it's been ages since he's really smiled and she wants to make him smile more. His laugh is soft and she likes the way it sounds, a little deep, melodious and hoarse, around the edges as if he hasn't laughed in a long time but wonderful and full of happiness all the same.

She thinks she could get use to this if he decides to stay. They ask each other questions, finding out more about each other while the waiter brings them their orders. It starts off a little rocky, a little awkward when she accidentally spills her milkshake, embarrassment creeping into her cheeks as she fumbles for apologies and napkins. It's been a while-- years--since she's been on a date and Chato seems to know that but he doesn't ask any questions and orders her another one instead.

She finds out more about him. He likes cactus gardens for some reason she doesn't quite understand but at the same time  _ does _ , long walks on the beach, and his favorite tune is Redemption by Bob Marley. She doesn't ask but he tells her the tattoos are permanent and she doesn't mind; they're beautiful and she longs to trace the artistic lines lining his bones. Her fingers brush against her wrist, tracing over own tattoo she's gotten long ago as a reminder for herself:  _ life is good. _

Life is good indeed, at least for tonight. She'll enjoy this moment while she can.

He asks her for a dance when they're both finished with their meals and she gladly accepts. The jukebox croons another song one he doesn't recognize as he twirls her to the mellow-paced beat, their hands entwining, linked and pressed together and they're so close, so close-- She can smell him, his cologne and very faintly, she can smell his smoke. It's not the harsh kind, much more softer and warmer, she thinks as she tries to find a way to describe it. Fire can too, be kind when needed. And right now, there's a fire being ignited inside her, a way she hasn't felt in a long time, and she finds herself needing more.

They sway gently side to side, his hands on her back, her arms wrapped around his neck, her head gently resting on his shoulder when she allows herself to relax, leaning into him and before she can stop herself, her fingers reach up and trace over the 13 inked onto his neck. His eyes meet hers after a moment and a soft smile crosses over his lips but he doesn't say anything and continues to let her trace his tattoo until she's finished. She pulls herself away with him still holding onto her and their eyes lock again. His eyes flick down to her lips and then he slowly lets her go, glancing away and takes a step back.

“I’mma take you home,” is all he says. He heads to get his jacket and she glances around for the clock which reads sometime after 11. Have they really been here that long?

They drive in silence and she casts him a sidelong glance as she tries to figure out what to say. It's like her first crush, her first date all over again and she can't help but feel like a requited teenage girl once more. A cool breeze brushes over her skin when they reach her apartment building, parking down the block since cars fill up the remaining spaces for Nicola’s party which is still going strong.

She doesn't realize she's shivering slightly until Chato drapes his warm jacket over her shoulders. She smiles gratefully and decides, maybe it's time to thank him for saving her life, for everything he's done for her. She'd almost forgotten about it and hadn't gotten a chance to tell him back at the diner. They're alone again when they reach the front entrance and this could be a good time to say it, get this over with already--  
  
She opens her mouth, ready to speak, but then she's stopped short, frozen in place while Chato reaches out, his hands gently cupping her face as he places a kiss on her cheek.  
  
“You're welcome,” he tells her after slowly pulling away.  “For saving your life.”  
  
He hesitantly lets his hand fall back to his side and sees her expression as she slowly opens her eyes-- a conflicted round of uncertainty, awe and surprise. She's not sure how to feel about this, her body stiff, a million thoughts running through her head.  
  
"Shit, I--" Chato says, taking a step back, "I shoulda asked to do that first. I'm sorry, Grace. I--I wasn't thinking. _Jesus Christo._ I'm fucking this up, aren't I?"  
  
He chuckles nervously, running a hand over his head and Grace snaps back to reality, realizing he's waiting for her response, waiting for her to say something.

“Oh, God, no,” she intones quickly, “No, you're -- I had a great time tonight.”

He stares at her. “You did?”

She smiles genuinely. “I did.”

“That's good.” She's not entirely sure but she thinks that he's relieved at this. “Can I buy you a drink next time? I mean--”

“I'd like that.”

They hesitantly bid each other goodbye and he watches her walk inside. She's so engrossed with thoughts of seeing him again and how their date went that she realizes when she's halfway up the stairs, she's still wearing his jacket around her shoulders. Grace rushes down the steps as fast as she can, nearly tripping over herself in the process when she practically barrels outside. Maybe she can still catch up with him.

He's nowhere to be found when she pushes past the door and she sighs in defeat. She's about to go back inside when a loud crash draws her attention from the nearby alley. She knows it could be a raccoon or hell, even a homeless person but that's not what she notices. It's the random bursts and flickering of flames crackling as she edges closer, peering around the corner of the building, pulling Chato's jacket closer to her body.

Chato's in front of her, a good few inches away, his hands on fire as he pins Robbie up against the brick wall behind him. Grace steps closer as quietly as she can to make out what they're saying.

“You've got the devil inside you too,” Chato growls out.

“I ain't no devil,  _ ese_,” Robbie spits out. “I ain't stupid like that. You want a Devil? Go talk to Johnny Blaze.”

“Who the fuck is J-- what the hell are you doing in my neighborhood?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Robbie sneers, “I didn't know this was  your  neighborhood,  _ese_.”

Chato growls again and slams him back against the wall again and Robbie seems to understand he's not messing around. Robbie grabs Chato's hands and yanks them off his jacket, his head disintegrating into a fiery skull. She hears Chato curse in Spanish (and she knows it's a curse because she hears enough of it from Nicola), something along the equivalent of  “What the actual fuck?!”

Judging from Chato's surprised tone, he didn't expect this and to be honest, she didn't expect this either. But she stays and listens even though she knows she's treading on dangerous waters (fires?) here, ignoring the rational part of her that's telling her to leave, to run and hide, seek the safety and comfort of her apartment.

She stays.

Robbie explains he's not there because he wants to be, but because he has to be, whatever that means. He tells Chato after returning back to his human form, that he's a Spirit of Vengeance and that Chato is not one like he thinks, but he's “something. Older. Ancient.”

“I'm not the one who decides who lives and dies. I'm just here,” Robbie says. “The other guy does the damage and I take the blame.”

Chato says nothing but just watches him warily, hands balled into fists. “So why are you here?”

“Rose Tattoo. She's a --”

“I know who she is,” Chato interrupts and Robbie shoots him a look, “I dragged the bitch down to Hell with me once. She still kicking?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Great,” Chato sighs with annoyance.

“The other guy's not going to agree with me, but I think I could use your help.”

Chato snickers. “I'm sorry because it sounded like you just said you needed my help,  _ ese_. After what happened earlier?”

“Look, this is your neighborhood, ain't it? You know this place better than I do.”

“Well, I ain't the one who sold my soul to the Devil,” Chato retorts sharply.

“I told you: I ain't stupid like that,” Robbie's silent before he offers Chato an explanation, shifting on his feet, “He was the only one buying. I did it to help my little brother. And you're the one talking,  _ Diablo _ .”

Chato rolls his shoulders back and turns back to face Robbie. “Fine. When do we start?”

Robbie has a smirk spreading across his face. “Try to keep up, old man.”

Grace immediately backs up, hiding behind the crook by the entrance door as Robbie brushes past her now vacated spot. She hears Chato's footsteps following close by, but they pause for a moment and she's holding her breath, praying that he doesn't catch her hiding in the shadows, having been eavesdropping on their conversation. His footsteps start up again slowly and then Chato's curling around the corner of her crook, a knowing look on his face, lips twitching at the corners as their eyes meet.

“Go home, Grace.”

“Stay safe,” she tells him quietly after a heartbeat, embarrassed she's gotten caught and wonders how he knew that she was there.

“I will,” he promises and leans in and presses his lips to her forehead. “Goodnight, Grace.”

“Night.”

“Keep the jacket.”

He gives her a wink when he's interrupted by the sound of Robbie yelling _“Dude, hurry the fuck up!”_

She blinks and then Chato's gone.

** _oOo_ **

** NEXT UP:  ** Chapter Six - the world raises its middle finger to the Devil and Chato Santana is having none of it.

 **NOTES:**  
  
Life gets in the way, you know? Thank you all so much for being so patient for this chapter to come out. I hope you all enjoy this since this is one of the happier chapters! :) Did you expect the cameo from Robbie Reyes? I know he's Marvel but I just had to and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I'm considering on writing a one-shot of their adventure in L.A., so hit me up if you're interested in reading that (although it'sgoing to be written after Closer to the Fire is over.). On the bright side, Chato and Grace finally went out on a date! Special thanks to Jay Hernandez for giving out the El Diablo dating profile and for Corina Calderon, for shooting me more inspiration on Grace and confirmation of her “Diablo” and “life is good” tattoos and reposting my artwork of Grace (which you can also see below after the notes.) Also, is there a way to upload a Microsoft Word document or Google Docs without having to double space it and redo the italics? Because it's a pain in the ass to do every freaking time.

As always, this was beta-proofed by sirgnomethegiant on Tumblr! Go check her blog out. Seriously, she deserves lots of love. :)

Please, if you can, try to leave a review and comment your thoughts. Follow TheRisingAlleria and thegracesantana on Tumblr for more updates!  
  
Thank you so much for reading! See you all next time! :D

\- Alleria

** EXTRA: **

**_ Grace Santana -- Drawn by TheRisingAlleria _ **


	6. until every last star in the galaxy dies, you have me

**Rating:** Mature   


** Word Count:  ** 5,316

 **Chapter Warnings:** Description of R ape, Attempted Murder, Murder, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Blood, Night Terrors

 ** Pairing: **Grace/Chato Santana  
  
** Summary: **   _Grace_ _Santana knew what she was getting into when she first laid eyes on the tattooed man they called El Diablo. Temptation’s hard to resist and after all, who can say they fell in love with and married the Devil?_

** ___ **

** vi. **

**CHATO**  

 _There's a world full of gods and monsters and Chato Santana is no exception.  
  
But tonight, he's just a man.  
  
The nightmares of the Dead wake him and the innocents he's killed surround him and then Grace is beside him, her hands on his face. He can't look away because she reminds him so much like her, his Abuela, her eyes begging for answers, praying for goodness in him. And then he's dragged down under, underneath the fires of Hell, anguish screaming from his lungs, his soul--   
  
no not her take me take me instead_  
  
_His scream is loud as the flames rake over her body, searing into her skin, past her bones, into her heart but he can't let her go, can't let her go because he can't-- there's no words. He's suffering and then she's gone, disintegrating into ash._  
  
_His saving Grace is gone, all gone because of him and there's nothing he can do to bring her back and it's all his fault, all his fault--_  
  
_All my fault._  
  
_This is all my fault._  
  
_And then he wakes up._

 ** _oOo_ **   


He's always known that there are other metahumans out there in the world, but seeing someone like him, with abilities somewhat similar to his, makes him really think of the extent of his powers, how far he could push himself, whether he could turn out to be like Reyes, setting ablaze his body in all his fiery glory.  
  
But a warning from Lazarus Lane stops him, asking Chato not to divulge into it further, to leave it alone until the time is right and he pushes it to the back of his mind, his question remaining unanswered until he soon forgets it.  
  
The Devil inside him won't let him die; he knows because he's tried and the fact that Jorge, his right-hand man betrays him, shooting him in the back. Grace visits him in the hospital when she hears the news from Miguel and brings him a stuffed animal from the gift shop down below on the first floor. She's cut her hair since the last time they've seen each other, since their awkward but memorable date and he finds himself enjoying her ramblings and even though he doesn't understand the half of what they mean, he listens because he has nothing better to do. The pain becomes unnoticeable when he focuses on her voice, trying not to shift his weight in fear of ripping his stitches out. If it was up to him, he would've already have done it himself, but since the police found him unconscious before he could get away, he's stuck here. But at least he has living company instead of the dead, who wail and moan from adjacent rooms and the hallways, begging to be answered or in denial of their untimely deaths.  
  
Grace surprises him by unlocking his handcuff with a bobby pin she's pulled from her hair, allowing his wrist to move freely with a mischievous grin, offering no explanation to how she's learned that. She stays with him, falling asleep with her head next to his hand and his fingers gently stroke her hair, feeling her soft curls, listening to the sound of her breathing and cute little snores.  
  
He drifts to sleep soon after but then is soon awakened by the sound of her whimpering and small mumbling pleas for help escaping from her lips. "Grace," he says. "Wake up."  
  
She doesn't respond so he tries again to no avail, his voice louder this time. He reaches out to rouse her but then without meaning to, is pulled into her dream. Or rather, what seems to be her nightmare.  
  
He's confused, not understanding at first how he got here. He's in a place he doesn't recognize, the walls of the house pulsating with shadows, oozing with life and broken glasses of alcohol strewn across the floor. There's a dent in the wall next to him a clump of hair under his feet. The sound of whimpering catches his attention and he finds himself walking down the dark hallway, glass crunching in the places he steps and illuminating his fire, he looks down to see a picture of a smiling Grace with a man holding her up in his arms in a playful manner. A door with light shining from the bottom at the end of the hallway appears in front of him and he heads toward it, noticing that it was recently busted open and twists the knob. The door creaks open and the sight before him sickens him and fills him with anger.  
  
The man from the photograph has Grace pinned down on the bed, grunting and thrusting, pants unzipped around his knees. Grace lies motionless underneath him, eyes shut, head turned to the side, tears sliding down her bruised face and when she opens them, they're full of pain and regret. She blinks and sees him standing there and a mixture of disbelief and confusion spreads through her face. "Chato?"  
  
"Who the fuck is Chato?"  
  
"I am," he snarls in response and without hesitation, he yanks the man off of Grace before the man can muster a shout of surprise. He slams the man back, fire igniting in his hands and the man screams in agony as his skin begins to char and blacken. Chato wants to make this man pay for what he's done to Grace. He hurt her and now he's going to pay. The man's screams soon turn into inhuman howls when Chato shoves him violently out the open bedroom door and soon he's nothing more than a pile of ash after he falls and hits the floor.  
  
Grace's sobbing echoes in his ears and he turns to see her scrambling up against the headboard, tucking in her legs and arms close to her chest, shaking and whimpering. He holds out his hands in a placating gesture, showing her that he means no harm as he edges toward her slowly. "Grace, it's okay," he promises. "It's okay."  
  
Her frantic darting eyes meet his and her hands rub vigorously against each other's as she tries to make sense of what's going on. "I-I don't . . ." she stammers out, tears running down her cheeks. Her voice is hoarse and she swallows as she tries again. Again, nothing comes out. Her hands press against her head, curling into her hair as she rocks back and forth. Her hand reaches out to his, an offer he takes, gently letting it rest in his as she grips it tight. "He--He . . ."  
  
"I know," he tells her because he knows. He's seen it branded into her soul the night they first met. "He can't hurt you again."  
  
He's unsure of how to comfort her. Does he keep holding her hand? Does he hold her? What does someone do in a situation like this because he's never been acquitted for something like this before. He wonders if she realizes that this is her dream, that he's really not there, that they're not really there at all. The nightmare, he guesses, never has deviated before until he arrived and she's always been trapped in this dark memory with no way out until now.  
  
She gasps and shudders and he holds her hand, thumb circling slowly and she looks at him before she speaks. "Can you . . . Can you take me home?"  
  
He nods. "Yeah. I can do that."  
  
He scoops her up, careful not to touch her thighs and he can't help but notice there's blood on his fingers and forces himself not to look. Grace clutches onto him like he's her lifeline, which he technically kind of is, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, tears soaking his shirt as she weeps.  
  
"I got you," he tells her as he carries her out, "I got you."  
  
His eyes shoot open as he's jerked awake, pulling his hand away from Grace's shoulder. Slowly afterwards, she snaps her head up, looking around before she notices him watching her.  
  
"Did I wake you? I'm sorry," she murmurs softly. "I had a bad dream."  
  
Chato doesn't say anything because she doesn't remember him being there with her. Or maybe she does. "I tried to wake you up," he offers instead and she intertwines their fingers, showing her gratefulness.  
  
"I'm sorry," she repeats again, looking almost ashamed. "It's never gotten this bad before," she lies and Chato knows she's lying because her lips and her head tilt slightly to the right. He wonders if he has a tell-tale sign he does without realizing it when he lies and if he does, that's something he needs to conceal.  
  
"You're okay," he tells her. "You're here with me." He means it. He won't let that fucker touch her again, wherever he is.  
  
Grace gives him a tiny sincere smile. Footsteps pad outside the way, heading in their direction and Grace quickly snaps the handcuff back in place with an apologetic look.  
  
"I'm used to it," he grins. "One day, you're gonna tell me how you learned to do that."  
  
He quickly realizes his mistake the minute his words come out of his mouth. Grace freezes before she forces a tight smile and stands up when the doctor walks in. She turns to him before she leaves and says, "I'll see you tomorrow, Chato."  
  
"Grace--"  
  
But she's out the door before he can say another word.  
  
His doctor's quiet before he lets out a small scoff and Chato sees him smirking. "I'd like to tap that," he says. He sees Chato glaring at him as he injects another dose of morphine into his system.

"If you even think about putting your hands on her, you'll see how fast I get out of this bed,  _ Doctor_," he growls.  


The doctor looks at him smugly. “Enjoy your stay, Santana. Because you're gonna be here for quite a while.”

He leaves and Chato's alone with his thoughts in the dark, the morphine taking ahold of him with reaching hands, pulling him under before he's slipping into the shadows of his dreams. He's awakened harshly by the sound of footsteps entering his room and sees Jorge's men standing above him, knives in hand. They attempt to smother him with a pillow to muffle his screams, stab after stab, blood pooling around his stomach, wherever they can reach and it's clear he's not dying. Because there's no  _ fucking _way in hell Chato Santana is going out like this, oh hell no, not like this at all, and he'll be damned if he lets that happens.

Fire ignites from his body. He's in pain, so much pain and he wants to make them pay for this and--

_ Careful, boy. _

_ Why won't you fucking die?! _

_ Make them pay. _

_Just die!  _

Screams.

There's screaming all around him when his soul tugs on for more flames deep within him and then he's filled with rage, determination surging through him as he lets loose . . .

** _oOo_ **

He remembers nothing.  


He finds himself walking down an empty street in the remains of burnt clothing he must've grabbed during his blackout, the fabric still simmering from the destruction he caused. The wails of sirens fade out into the distance on their way to the hospital, the glow of the fire illuminating the night sky. His bare feet ache from soreness on the road he's on, not sure how long he's been out here, how much time he's missed. He'd never lost control of his powers before and now he's not sure if he has had any control of them in the first place.

A whirlwind of thoughts pass through his head while he walks, holding his bloody abdomen, pressing his hand against his deep cuts, trying to stop the bleeding, knowing full well he should be dead. And he will be, if he doesn't find a place to stitch himself back up.

_Step.  _

_One.  _

_Step.  _

_                    Two. _

_ Step. _

_           Thr-- _

He suddenly finds himself standing in front of Grace's apartment complex, one hand on the knob and wonders whether he should go in. He has no other place he can think of now; Jorge betrayed him and he doesn't trust anybody else right now, not even his boys. Except for her.

Grace.

He trusts her.

_Grace.  _

The pull is still there, he thinks, although he's not sure whether it's from his abilities, bringing her back from the dead, or just all in his head. Is this all in his head? He doesn't know.

He pauses in his steps in the middle of the hallway. What if he does it again? What if he blacks out and causes another wave of destruction here? What if he burns her? Loses control again? Kills her and everyone else living here, every newborn baby, their mothers being ripped away from them like his own, because of him?

He can't even trust himself. The best thing to do would be to turn around right now--  _ RIGHT NOW _  -- and to never come back and seek a safer haven somewhere else. But a part of him wants to go on. To Grace.

So he listens to his conscience before he can regret his choice.

He knocks as softly but urgently as he can on her door, or at least he's hoping it's the right door. Best he can figure and remember from Miguel’s cousin, she lives two floors above her friend, Nicola.

The door creaks open in a half slit as far as the chain allows and a face peeks through cautiously. It's not Grace but an elderly woman who stares him him curiously before she realizes who he is, recognition flashing through and rushes to shut the door in his face. He sticks his arm out, stopping her, forcing it to stay open long enough to choke out in a raspy voice: “I need . . . to find Grace Elizondo.”

“What do you want with her?” she asks after a moment, her eyes taking in his stature, the soot covering his body, the tattoos on his face, the blood seeping through his fingers, the burnt clothing.

“I need her help. Tell me where she is.” He sees her hesitation, her uncertain expression and amends quickly, “I'm not gonna hurt her. She's my g--friend.”

The woman has no reason to tell him where she lives and he's not gonna fault her for that. There's no reason to get angry, burn her, just because she's not gonna give him an answer. But he's desperate.

She finally concedes after a moment of searching him and considering her options and points down the hallway. “End of the hall. 674. Don't burn down this place, Diablo. It's the only home I have left.”

The door clicks shut after he lowers his arm and before he can give her his gratitude.

He makes his way toward Grace's door, a limp bordering on his right leg he hasn't taken notice of before and raises his hand to knock. But the door swings open before he has a chance to.

“Chato?” Her eyes flick up and down worriedly as she takes in his appearance, an expression he can't identify curving her brows.

He smiles weakly. “Grace. Hey.”

“Jesus,” she swears. There's a conflicted round of emotions running across her face, like she's debating on whether or not to let him in. She sighs, shaking her head almost imperceptibly, then looks behind him. “Come in.”

He staggers in with painstaking movement and she helps him to the couch. “You'll have to excuse the mess,” she tells him and disappears into the bathroom. She returns with a box in her hands and sets it down on the table in front of him, then retreats to the kitchen behind them, grabbing something he can't see and hands him not water like he expects, but a bottle of tequila.

“Take off your shirt.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Wow, Grace. I'm flattered and a--”

“Chato, shut the fuck up,” she cuts in. And he can't be sure but he thinks she's  _angry_.  Her eyes are hard and her lips are pursed and he's taken aback by the sharp tone rolling off her tongue because he's never seen her like this. “You're bleeding out on my goddamn couch and it's pretty safe to say that your stitches ripped out on the way here and you've got a shard of glass stickin’ out of your shoulder. So.  _ Take off. Your_ _goddamn. Shirt._ ”

He stares at her because no one ever  _ dares _to talk to him like this and then get away with it without him getting angry in return. But this is Grace. And he learns something more about her everyday.

He reaches up and tugs his shirt off with some slight difficulty, stripping it away. Grace gets straight to work on his shoulder, pinning her hair up in a bun, retrieving the necessary supplies she needs to stitch him back up. She removes the shard of glass embedded in his shoulder with a grunt of pain escaping his mouth, taking a swig of the bottle in his hand, dulling the pain. It's clear to him that she's done this before and he can feel her fingers on his back while she sews the wound together. He turns his head and sees her biting her lower lip in concentration and then their eyes meet. 

She's still angry and when she's finished, wiping off the excess blood with a washcloth, she covers it with antiseptic dressing and some tape. The silence is unbearable and it speaks volumes without needing to say anything and somehow this is much worse than his repeated stabbing and suffocation. What has he done to deserve this from her?

“Grace . . .”

She stops him with a look and the words in his throat die down. “I thought I told you that I would see you tomorrow,” she says sharply. And then it finally clicks. The reason why she's so angry and in front of them broadcasting live on a muted screen. The hospital. She thinks he purposely blew up the hospital.

“That ain't what happened. They tried to kill me and I just--” Chato stammers for an explanation, telling her about Jorge and his men, “I don't remember what I did. I just-- I don't know what I did.”

Grace studies him and for a second, disbelief spreads across her face before it softens into understanding. She nods slowly. There's something still bothering her, he can tell and he wonders what it is. But it's his choice not to ask and he lets her be. She flashes a tight smile and sits down next to him, dipping another washcloth into the bowl of water set on the table as she moves toward his abdomen. She gently cleans off the blood as best as she can and he catches her hand, their hands overlapping as he pries the washcloth carefully from underneath her palm.

“I got it.” Their eyes connect when he speaks and her fingers hesitantly let go, trailing down his skin as she pulls away. She stands and backs up slightly before she regains her footing.

“Um, the shower’s over there, second door to the right. And um, I'll try to find some . . . clothes for you.”

She starts to turn away and as of before, he only thinks it's a cliché in the movies to do this type of thing. She pauses in her steps when he calls her name and he waits until she turns back around, giving him her attention. “Thanks.”

** _oOo_ **

His wounds heal, but painstakingly slow. He might be born with the Devil’s flames inside of him but he's still human. He places dressing over them after he's finished stitching himself up, his blood spilling onto the tiles of Grace's shower, seeping through his fingers. He’s knotting the towel she'd given him around his hips, drying himself off carefully when Grace accidentally barges in the bathroom.

“What the -- oh shit!” She realizes her mistake, stuttering on apologies and then he sees her trying  so  hard not to look, immediately turning and shutting the door quickly, her cheeks flustered and pink. The door opens again not a second later and she quickly plops the clothes she had for him on the sink counter before the door slams shut again, with her mustering out a  “I'm so sorry!”

He chuckles softly. He wonders where Grace got the clothes from. They're a little snug on him when he tries them on, but at least he has something to wear. He finds her sitting on the couch, hair still pinned up, legs tucked underneath her, a cup of hot cocoa between her hands. There's no blood staining the couch so he figures he must've sat on a blanket when she helped him in or that Grace cleaned it up. The box is gone but the bottle of tequila still remains on the table. It's nearly empty but he drains it as they watch the news before it cuts to a commercial break.

“How many died?”

“Three,” she replies after a moment. “Eighteen more critically injured.”

He laughs before he can stop himself, a demented sound that rings along the walls and the floor of Grace's living room and then the laughter dies quickly as soon as it comes. Oh, the irony, he thinks, that Jorge's men came to kill him and now they were spending the rest of their days in Hell in ashes. He sees the incredulous look streaking across her face as she turns to look at him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks but there's no bite behind her words.

“I really don't know,” he tells her honestly. “I'm fucked up in the head. But those men got what they deserved.”

She's quiet. Another sip. Then another until her cup’s empty, setting it aside. She's in deep thought, a frown on her face before she reaches out for the remote beside her, clicking the television off, standing.

“Hey, what's wrong?”

She shakes her head. “It's nothing.”

He cocks his head to side. “Grace,” he says seriously. “From where I'm sitting, it doesn't look like anything. What's up?”

She lets out a sharp exhale.”It's stupid,” she begins, “It's a stupid dream. You don't need to hear about it.”

“No. Tell me.”

She twists her body toward him, wrapping her arms around her legs, facing him. “It's just . . . Earlier back in the hospital, the dream I had . . . You were in it. And I swear to God I know I sound crazy right now but --”

“You're not crazy.” She falters on her words as she looks at him curiously, waiting to hear what he has to say.

“I didn't mean to do what I did,” he explains. “I don't know what I do half the time and. . .”

“And?” she prompts.

“I was tryin’ to wake you up, you know? And then I was just  _there_.”

“You saw.” It's not a question but a statement. The way she's looking at him, her eyes baring into his; she's waiting for confirmation, a confirmation of him seeing the most darkest, vulnerable part of her soul that she's kept locked away from prying eyes and he had saw it when she was sleeping.

He nods hesitantly. “Yeah. I saw,” he whispers.

“When I saw you standing there at my door . . . I thought you were  _him_ ,” she continues bitterly without giving a name. A mirthless laugh escapes from behind her lips. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Who was he?” Grace's eyes snap up to meet his, cold and hard and he quickly adds, “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

She opens her mouth, closing it, then back again, swallowing visibly and lets out a long slow exhale. “He was my fiancé. Ha. You know. All that “young-and-eighteen-head-over-heels-true-love” bullshit.”

“Right.”

She doesn't divulge any further details and he figures that's all he's going to get tonight. And that's fine. When she's ready, he'll be there to listen.

She retreats to her bedroom and returns with an extra blanket and pillow in her arms, telling him he can stay the night on the couch if he needs to and there's something in her voice that makes him want to stay, like she doesn't want to be alone. And plus, she just bared her soul to him, something that was obviously difficult to do and he feels like he  _ should _stay. She trusts him enough to do that.

And so he stays.

He stays for her.

**GRACE**  

_ Grace Elizondo is dead. _

_ She's not sure when she's died but she just knows that whatever ghost lives inside her skin is not the same person she was before. Naive. Innocent. So trusting. Believing every single word of his lies. _

_ “Smile,” he tells her and she does. _

_ She's a puppet, with him pulling the strings, her eyes begging, crying out silent pleas nobody hears. _

_ Why doesn't anybody help her? Why doesn't anyone realize that something's wrong, that there's something wrong with her? Can't they see she's screaming on the inside, wanting to get out? _

_ _

_ “You're mine,” he snarls. They're alone behind the walls of his house, her screaming, begging him to stop, another bottle of alcohol slamming against the wall. Her face hurts so much, so much and there's so much blood-- _

_ He orders her to clean it up as he heads toward their bedroom, leaving her behind as she tries to calm him down, another swift and hard kick to her ribs. She cries as she crams her fist into her mouth after she resets a finger or two. She crawls into bed next to him, him rolling over, turning his body away from her and that's fine, she doesn't want him touching her again. She tells herself she'll leave when the time is right, but another thread of apologies, chocolate, and false kindness; promises of change from him send her running back to him, even though she knows she'll regret it every single time. _

_ But it's the threats toward her family and friends that rein her in. _

_ She's afraid of what he'll do to them when,  _ if _she  tries to leave. So she stays with him, suffers in silence through all the beatings, hides behind the mask of store-bought concealer to hide the bruises, and fakes a smile when he instructs her to do so when he catches her slipping through the web he's trapped her in. _

_ So she becomes a doll, thinking no thoughts and actions beyond what he allows, the days blurring together, waiting, waiting for the next strike, which becomes unbearable with each pump of her heart. _

_ So then, she decides to do something about it. She doesn't know what makes her finally snap, maybe it's the another round of beating she takes with him telling her this is all her fault, or maybe it's the sight of seeing her so-called best friend Addison, running her hands all over him, whispering words without a care in the world for Grace and she sees red. Betrayal rushes through her because she had trusted her (this is how you repay me?) and then alcohol is running down her throat in a bitter and furious burn, a cough sputtering out as she tries to regain her bearings. _

_ Next thing she knows, she's flicking on his lighter he'd given her for safekeeping when she staggers outside into the cool air of October and making a Molotov cocktail from the bottle she's holding in her hands straight into an open window and-- _

_ Screaming. _

_ A relieved laugh of insanity chokes her because he's gone, he's finally  _ fucking _ gone and he won't be able to touch her or hurt her ever again. The endless threats toward her family have evaporated into meaninglessness now. And his voice-- for so long louder and important than God’s at the moment-- doesn't exist anymore. _

_ She doesn't know what to do now. The world’s louder and frightening, more dangerous now that's she finally able to breathe and she doesn't remember how to face them. _

One step at a time,  _ she tells herself. _

_ But she underestimates the consequences that retaliate against her later in life and the ghosts that plague her every night in fitful dreams, their eyes filled with pure malice and hatred as they try to drag her down with them. _

You're coming with us, _ they whisper. _ One way or another.

 _ Their screams fill her ears and then she's screaming too, her hands thrashing as his hands wrap around her, holding her close to him, his hands stroking her hair and then garbled words hiss through his charred lips before they become much clearer:  _ wake up.

Her eyes flash open to find herself tangled in her blankets, her body pressed against Chato's arms as he attempts to soothe her, calm her down and she's shuddering, tears erupting before she can stop it, raspy sobs ripping through her chest as she holds onto his arm for support.

“You're okay,” he promises. He repeats it over and over until it finally sinks in.

“It's all my fault,” she sobs, “I killed them and they won't go away no matter what I do.”

His chin brushes against the top of her head as he shakes his head in reply. “No. That's not true. It's not your fault, Grace. You were . . . defending yourself.”

“Was I?”

The question remains unanswered as he tries to figure what to say. Soon her sobbing subsides and he looks down to see her still awake, her eyes still open, rimmed with tears, her hand still holding onto his forearm as she leans into him. He holds her, holding all the pieces that have never really come together since the death of her brother.

Their fingers lock together, his thumb brushing against the back of her hand. There's no more words to be spoken aloud -- it's just there and she's grateful. He didn't have to stay but he did. He  _ chose _to. And it's a dare to admit to herself, but for the first time in a long time, she feels safe.

Safe with him.

He's humming softly to her, a Spanish lullaby she recognizes from her Grandmother and it soothes her as his fingers trail warmth to her body. His voice gently lulls her to sleep where she sinks below the waves of ink and fire and then she's not afraid. She's not afraid. She hesitantly welcomes her dreams and then they're so good, so  _ good _toward her and the anxiety and fear washes away and she feels like she's being lifted up and feels lighter than she's ever felt before.

He appears in her dreams and she doesn't question it because she's had an inkling for a while now. Their souls are entwined, connecting deeper than ever and he's laughing and dancing with her, twirling her around. Fire has no realm of control here and so he creates beautiful art that emerges from his palms and it shines with beauty and hope, showing that fire cannot be destructive as he thinks.

_ Why would a woman like you want to stay with me? _ he asks as if he's genuinely curious. They're sitting side by side underneath a meadow of grass from emerald dew and mist on a bright sunny day, their bare feet tangling in invisible waters they can't see but feel surrounding their ankles.

A smile spreads across her because --  _look at this, look at what you've created!_ _“Why not?”_ she tells him.

Why not?

** _oOo_ **   


** NEXT UP:  ** Chapter Seven   aka “We Need to Talk About Grace” -- More of Grace's past is brought to light and Chato reflects on his feelings for her.

**NOTES:**  


Like I said, things are going to get much darker in this story as it progresses. There's going to to be time jumps here and there but nothing too drastic, I don't think but I'm letting you guys know so you won't be so confused in the next chapter. There will be flashbacks, of course and some more people will make cameo appearances. I'm estimating this story to be around 10-20 chapters but who knows, really? Ch. 4 has been revised as a reminder, so you might want to reread it because I added some more things here and there. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and don't hesitate to leave your thoughts in the comments below! Thank you all so much for sticking with this story, it means so much to me. :)

B eta-proofed by sirgnomethegiant. Give her cookies and confetti for making this story so much awesomer than it would originally have been if she did not offer her insight!!!

Follow TheRisingAlleria and thegracesantana on Tumblr for more updates!  
  
Thank you so much for reading! See you all next time! :D *blows kisses*

\- Alleria


	7. gold in your eyes dancing like fire

** Rating:  ** Mature

 ** Word Count:  ** 3,405

 **Chapter Warnings:** Murder (off screen); Drug Addiction/Use (referenced); Abuse (referenced)

 **Pairing** : Grace/Chato Santana  
  
**Summary:** Grace Santana knew what she was getting into when she first laid eyes on the tattooed man they called El Diablo. Temptation’s hard to resist and after all, who can say they fell in love with and married the Devil? 

[[Teaser Trailer #1 - Fanmade]](https://www.google.com/url?q=https://youtu.be/paSKMOGtoYU&sa=D&ust=1487121981512000&usg=AFQjCNEWhASUme4WAWfdWJ4TTpsq_TYlxQ) 

__ 

** viii. **

**CHATO**  

He ends up staying longer than he originally intends.

It begins to feel like home in a way that his never was since the death of his Abuela eight years ago. He's not sure whether he should be proud of that or not, because when he passes by his house within the next couple of days after Jorge's little stunt, it's been vandalized and ransacked with the word “DEVIL” spray-painted in red in the front. Like one of those warning signs from those zombie apocalypse movies and he has to laugh.

But Grace, bless her heart, tells him to fuck them and forget them, that karma’s going to come to them sooner and later, helping him patch things up, washing away their pathetic attempt at scaring him into the shadows. And karma  does  come after the men who did it. The police, on an advice from an anonymous tip, arrive to find their bodies charred out from the inside with nobody at the scene of the crime in an abandoned warehouse. (He never tells Grace what he's done, because he knows she wouldn't approve.)

They know he did it, of course. But there's no evidence and they can't charge him because they fear him and besides, who’s going to charge a dead man? He's supposed to be dead and here he is, living and breathing, defying the odds, a literal dead man walking.

He finds an artistic bone in his body, using a blank sketchbook given to him from Justine. Chato hopes she won't get in trouble if her mother finds out. He draws Grace; her eyes, her smile, her dimples. He draws her dancing, the way she looks so carefree in the dreams they share, the way she bites her lip when she's in deep concentration. He draws every part of her from memory, and then finds himself imagining deep down what she would look like naked; her hands on him, their legs tangling in each other's when they climax. He wonders what it would be like to have her, to take her as his own as his cock twitches guiltily in his pants in response. The pages and sharpened graphite do her no justice, he knows, but he'll wait. He tells himself that he doesn't care even though a part of him secretly does.

He never acts on his urges though because he knows Grace's been through a traumatic experience with her ex-fiancé of hers, the one who abused her, put his hands on her and made her bleed and destroyed her innocence; he's not sure if she's ready for that yet and he wants her to be comfortable with him before,  if  that happens. (God knows the last time he had an actual relationship with someone so he's taking this slow and because he doesn't want to lose her.)

Love.

_ Do I love her? _

He thinks he does.

_ (but he's made so many mistakes in his life, they might as well be his default setting. _

_      But  _ she _ \-- _

_              was never a mistake. _

_ All this -- the before he's left behind in the world of living -- was never a mistake._

_ He still loves her._

_ He always will.)_

She's his old lady, he likes to think her as -- a term Miguel used once upon a time before he went and got himself shot in the head during a police standoff he had no prior knowledge of.

Losing a member of his gang feels like an limb being ripped off. They're family -- or at least the closest thing to a family that they have. His boys treat him with respect and give him loyalty (and he thinks, more power) and he does the same for them but if anyone crosses him, he's not afraid to show them what he can do. He remembers the last time it happened and it was when he'd recruited the young man and he talked smack about Grace and wouldn't stop when Chato told him to, ignoring the boys’ warning of provoking him. The bubbling squelching of flesh is imprinted forever in his memory and the cries of his agonizing screams echo through the building his gang rallies in, fat sizzling under the char. The young man never dares to talk to him again and follows in line with the others and chooses to stay on his own accord. 

_ (but even he can't mute the wrongs he's done, jerking awake with gritted teeth in the place called a beautiful dream, rasping his hands over nonexistent blankets to scrape off the feeling.) _

Grace is learning his language more everyday and it makes him happier than he could think. He has someone else to share the language with beside Nicola, Justine, and Robbie. He notices that when she gets frustrated or angry, she rants in Spanish and he loves the way it fluently rolls off her tongue after weeks of practicing with him.

Chato's not exactly a man of self control.

But he's been a goner since the day he'd met her and he doesn't regret it one day of it so far, enjoying each minute he's spending with her. It's a nice contrast compared to the harsh nightlife of the Hillsiders, the way the world burns and erupts into chaos underneath his rule, his fire in the streets of East L.A. Nightmares plague him like ghosts and there are some days when his hands reach for hers, only to change his mind at the last second, jerking them away. He reminds himself not to get too close to Grace. 

Because eventually, she'll leave.

Like his mother.

Abuela.

Veronica.

But she doesn't.

He wakes up every morning and she's still there.

_ (And then she isn't.) _

** _oOo_ **

**GRACE**

Tonight is Chato's birthday.

He'd let it slip nonchalantly right after her shift off at work and she's surprised to find he's a year older than her at the moment. She tries to ask what he wants for his birthday and he claims he doesn't want anything but she can tell he wants  something .

He finally relents by jokingly telling her snow as his reply (even though he looks like he's totally serious) to which she gives him a knowing look of amusement and then asks her to come with him to Diá de los Muertos. “I can show you my world,” he tells her and she happily agrees.

He's sitting with her in their usual spot at The Inferno, her legs tucked underneath her jeans, his fingers absentmindedly playing with her curls as he listens to the music. He shifts his body weight on the couch and then next thing she knows, she's being pulled up and is being led to the dance floor.

Grace sways her body to the beat, letting it overtake her. Her hips swing and she throws her head back, hair flying back, her hand gripping against the back of Chato's neck as he looks on mesmerized and completely smitten. He licks his lips and he's looking almost  _hungry_.  Chato's fingers latch onto her belt loops, pulling her closer in an almost possessive, aggressive way and she finds herself being turned on by this show of display. Their eyes lock, their bodies rolling together to the rapid beat of the music, his hands on her hips as they practically grind against each other. And then it clicks.

All the lingering glances toward her, the way his eyes dart to her lips from time to time. He's been wanting to kiss her. So she'll let him, if that's what he wants.

Besides, she's been wanting to kiss him too. There's no way she's going to let this slip through her fingers. But first, maybe it's time to freshen up.

** CHATO **

The beat of music soon fades into a softer contrast and Grace laughs, pushing her hair back as exhaustion hits them both. Small sweat beads around her shoulders and trails down her arms and Chato finds himself wrapping her in his arms again, her back pressed against his chest as they both sway slowly to each thump reverberating from the floor and the walls straight into their bones.

Finally, she pulls away, a smile still etched on her face. She tells him that she'll be right back, and he watches her leave, her hands pulling away from his, their eyes never leaving each other's. He watches her disappear into the restroom with one last look toward him and heads back to his seat.

He's sitting there, smirking to himself, thinking about how lucky he is and thinking about how if he can't have snow tonight for his birthday, he's glad to have her with him.

But it's not until several minutes pass that he realizes that Grace hasn't returned.

It's not like her to take this long, even to freshen up and he finds himself worrying about her.

He's hesitant about barging into the women's restroom just to check on her, because then it occurs to him that it might be  that  time of month. But Grace's nowhere to be found when he pushes through the empty stalls, ignoring several cries of protests when she doesn't reply. He searches for her, asking several of her coworkers if they'd seen where she went to which they give out hesitant echoes of “no.”

He finds her walking barefoot on an empty street after stealing another car, her eyes glazed over like she's high and she  practically throws herself onto him when she sees him, hands running up and down his chest with this  _ look _ in her eyes as she peers up at him and he knows that something's so terribly, terribly wrong with her. He takes a step back, hands gently curling around her wrists to stop her advances as he tries to make sense of what the fuck is going on.

She tries to dance, twirling as she trips over own feet and he catches her as she continues to slur her sentences together, promising him that she's okay and that she feels amazing and that “I really want to fuck you right now.” He notices that when she waves over his shoulder with one free hand, that the road he's on,  they're  on, the road she'd been walking on, leads toward his house. She twists out of his encircled arms and starts stumbling backward, a mischievous grin on her face. “Catch me if you can.”

She runs, daring him to chase her. “ Shit! ”

The door’s already open when he arrives and the spare key’s still in the lock. He pulls it out and sets it on the table, shutting the door behind him as he flicks on the light. Grace's dress is on the floor along with her bra and panties as he steps further down the hallway, hearing the shower run in the distance. A glint of silver catches his eye. It's a gum wrapper labeled Vertigo.

Vertigo.

Vertigo.

_ Vertigo. _

Why does that sound so familiar to him?

He doesn't go too far even though he's hesitant to leave her all by herself and goes to sit on the couch, waiting for her to finish and trying to figure out where he's heard of Vertigo before. He remembers that she's only had one drink, just one drink, not particularly strong enough to get her buzzed and wonders why she's acting like this.

Next thing he knows, he's shutting his eyes briefly for a moment, exhausted from all the adrenaline and running around when he finds Grace standing in front of him, hair wet, wearing one of his shirts that almost leaves nothing to his imagination. Her nipples push against the grey fabric shaping her curves and he finds himself growing hard and then she's straddling him. Her hands overlap his and she moves them closer to squeeze her ass and he's thinking about his sexual fantasies about her and how much he's wanting to take her here and now (and God, she's so fucking beautiful) and it doesn't help that she's beginning to grind on him and --

_ No. This is wrong. _

(but oh God yes)

He stands up abruptly, gently pushing her back as much as it pains him when her hands start to reach for his face, leaning in to kiss him. She looks upset and hurt when she realizes that he's rejected her and he feels bad about it, but he knows if he lets it go any further, he'll end up becoming like her ex-fiancé and he doesn't want that.

“I'm not good enough for you?” She contorts her face into a mixture of hurt, betrayal and anger as she twists her body on the couch to face him, not understanding why he's doing this.

“No, no. That's not it,” he tells her because she's been so good, _so_ _ good _  to him and he knows he doesn't deserve her at all. But he has to make her understand. “Look, you're not yourself right now. I--”

“You don't want me?”

He pauses, because oh God yes, he wants her, he wants to run his tongue over her nipples, her breasts and make her wet until she cums and moans his name, but he doesn't say that. She's not herself right now and he's determined to get to the bottom of this once and for all.

“You want this,” she snaps in an accusing tone, cutting off whatever he's about to say. She closes the distance between them, poking his chest. “I've seen the way you've looked at me.  _You want this._ ”

“I do,” he admits. “But not like this, Grace.”

A scoff of outrage releases between her lips and a flash of  hurt  crosses over her face once again. “I can make you feel good,” she insists, but it's said in a way like she's reciting something off a script. Like she's done this before. And it's so tempting, so  _fucking_  tempting and his cock wants to make the decision for him. But he resists and tells her that he “can't do that.”

Her mood changes almost instantly. She's hitting him with balled fists as hard as she can and he lets her and then she's crying. She's crying and clutching onto his shirt as she lets her body weight overwhelm her, mumbling softly as she meets the floor.

She's tapping her temples with her fingers as she looks at him with wide eyes. “He's in my head. And he won't leave. He's always gonna be there. He won't leave me alone.”

“He's not here,” he promises.

Her eyes dart around nervously though and her hands tighten around his. Her voice drops to a whisper. “But he's right  there.”

No one’s behind him. He swallows when he turns back to her, her dark brown eyes glistening. Her eyes drift in and out of focus, fluttering. “I'm so tired,” she murmurs sleepily.

Chato doesn't know what to do. But he gently lifts her up and carries her to the couch, laying her down while her eyes turn vacant, rolling up in her head before she drifts off to sleep.

He calls Justine, asking her if he can talk to Nicola, because he'll never admit that he needs her help right now. She’s in a panic when he mentions the gum wrapper and Vertigo and he hears her yelling at Justine in the background. She tells him to stay where they are and that they’ll be over as soon as they can. She hangs up before he can tell her where they're at. She somehow finds him anyway, pushing her way in when he opens the door and normally, he would be mad and would tell her to get the fuck out of his house but this is for Grace. Justine gives him a small smile and a nod when she follows closely behind her mother.

He overhears Grace admitting that she thinks she crashed the car somewhere but Nicola brushes it aside, telling her that that's not important right now and  “you hated that piece of shit anyway.”  Grace eventually calms down a bit, although later in the evening, she becomes feverish and even more delusional, shivering and mumbling in her sleep. He wants to help her. But his powers can't heal her, can't cleanse away whatever's attacking her body from the inside, destroying her brain as it makes her relive her worst memories. Vertigo, Nicola explains to him, sparking his memory, makes you see your worst fear as it sends you down on a downward spiral, and for some users, can eventually lead to your death -- all trademarked and illegally brought to you by Count Vertigo from Starling City.

“Before . . . when she was with  _ him_, she used to take it small doses,” Nicola spills out hesitantly as she studies him warily, her tone venomous, “Just made her high enough for him to get it in her head that she  liked  it. God, that son of a bitch really fucked her up.”

Chato's quiet as he listens to Nicola. He turns his head to watch Justine place a cool washcloth on Grace's forehead.

“Not that that's going to change what he did to her,” Nicola continues, tipping the beer bottle she'd grabbed from his refrigerator in her hand, finishing it in one gulp, “It’s a miracle she even woke up in the first place. You know, she would disappear for days at a time and then show up again out of the blue like nothing happened? There were just days when she would just . . . not move for  hours  in my room and I would think she was dead. And then she would be gone in the morning. Like clockwork. Live. Die. Repeat. Over and over again.”

“What happened to him?” he asks after they sit in silence for a moment. He  knows  what happened but it would be nice to have confirmation that the son of a bitch’s still not kicking around. He's never seen the aftermath of what's happened besides in Grace's soul and nightmares. He hasn't wanted to punch anyone this hard since his father and that's an understatement to say the least.

“Oh, he's dead,” she tells him, meeting his eyes. There's hatred firing up in her eyes and the way her face turns impassive. “She killed him. I say good riddance. God knows how many times he put his hands on her without her permission.”

Nicola grabs another beer of the table and opens it, taking a gulp. Her face softens for a moment as she watches him. “You know . . . Maybe you're not so bad after all. I mean, I still don't like you and I don't  _have_  to but I think I can kinda see why Grace likes you . . . For some reason.”

Another head toss. Chato finds himself subconsciously searching through Nicola’s soul before he realizes what he's doing and pulls away. He understands now  why  Nicola doesn't like him. He's terrorized the streets, sowed fear into the hearts and minds of her neighbors and burned down their homes and stolen some possessions of theirs. She hates him for doing that and hates the day he had led his gang around the streets in a violent rampage which lead to the destruction of her own house when she was younger.

But he's a leader. He leads for an example and that is what he's doing even though she doesn't necessarily agree with it. It's just business. He feels bad about burning her house down and sees the accusing look in her eyes deep down as if they're saying,  why couldn't you have waited one more day?  But if he hadn't, she would've never ran into Grace again. It's funny how their lives intersected without them knowing about it.

But since the fallout from her birthday party, Nicola and Grace haven't really talked in the past few weeks and he's noticed how it's affected them. They're both too stubborn to admit it though: that they need each other. But they're waiting on the other to sprout apologizes first.

He begins to open his mouth to ask if they're still friends but all of a sudden he's interrupted by Justine rushing in a panic, looking scared, a kitchen knife brandished in her right hand. She quickly rushes toward an nearby window, peeking out past the blinds to where an unearthly light illuminates her face.

“Uh, not to ruin the moment here, but I think there's an angry mob outside your house.”

** _oOo_ **

_ CLIFFHANGER!!! *evil laughter here*  And I think this is probably the first cliffhanger in this story so far so yahhh. Happy Valentine’s Day! _

**NEXT UP:** “We Need To Talk About Grace” Part 2 - Grace reflects on her feelings on Chato and an old face returns to wreck havoc.

** NOTES: **

So, hi. It's been a while, everyone --

_ “FOUR MONTHS TO BE EXACT!” _

 \-- yup. it's been fou-- holy shit, really?!?! Well, excuse you but I've been trapped in the Upside Down for that long. Nah, I'm kidding (if you didn't get that, it's a Stranger Things reference . . . )

Anyway, I feel really, really  super  awful about leaving you all hanging for four months -- and I know you're probably thinking, why haven't you been updating? Well, life and work, mostly work -- but I hope you enjoy this chapter and this update (even though it's super depressing as fuck. Roofies are so not cool guys. Don't do it.). I rewrote this like five freaking times because it wasn't where I wanted it but whatever. I know you're probably confused but don't worry, it'll be cleared up in the next chapter. And then moving on to the Halloween-centric chapter (which is like four months too late from the time I originally wrote it. So whoops?)! But it'll be more lighthearted and happy!!!

But enough about that now because I've also been working on a movie trailer for this story, which you can see on my Tumblr or by clicking the link above at the beginning of this chapter. I hope you enjoy that too because I tried very hard on it (even though it didn't reach my expectations.)

AND I'm looking for some more beta-readers!! So if anybody is interested, hit me up on Tumblr or PM me on here or on FF.net or Wattpad. I'm looking for someone who knows more about the DC Universe and has read a majority of the Suicide Squad comics (because I've only watched the movie and Chato's storyline in Most Wanted.)

Don't hesitate to leave your thoughts in the comments below! Whether it's a typo or just to say hello! :)

This chapter was beta-proofed by sirgnomethegiant. Thank you for your reader’s perspective on this story! :D you're an amazing person!

Follow TheRisingAlleria and thegracesantana on Tumblr for more updates!  
  
until we meet again

\- Alleria


End file.
